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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



AFTERWARD 

Memories of Margaret 
and Paul 



BY 

DELLA LUDINGTON STETSON 



"All chastening seemeth for the present to 
be not joyous but grievous, yet afterward 
it yieldeth peaceable fruit unto them that 
have been exercised thereby, even the 
fruit of righteousness. 

Heb. 12: 11 



Privately Printed by 
SHAKESPEARE PRESS 

114-116 K. 28th St., N.Y. 
1912 






THE LIBRARY 
or CONGRESS 

WASHINGTON 



Copyright, 1912, by 
Della Ludington Stetson. 



6.7* 



gd.A3l2733 

'HO • ! • 



Margaret Elizabeth Stetson, 

Born October 16, 1899. 

Fell asleep March 18, 1908. 

"At Home with the Lord" 

II. Cor. 5:8. R. V. 

Paul Ludington Stetson, 

Born March 8, 1902. 

Fell asleep March 5, 1908. 

"With Christ, which is far better" 

Phil. 1:23. 



«. ?* rY e W n0t have y° u ignorant* brethren, concerning them 
that fall asleep; that ye sorrow not, even as the rest, which have 
no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even 
so them also that are fallen asleep in Jesus will God bring with 
Him. & 

For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we 
that are alive, that are left unto the coming of the Lord, shall in 
n ° W1 ? e P r ? cede them tha * are fallen asleep. For the Lord Him- 
self shall descend from Heaven, with a shout, with the voice of 
the arch-angel and with the triumph of God; and the dead in 
Christ shall rise first; then we that are alive, that are left, shall 
together with them be caught up in the clouds, to meet the Lord 
m the air; and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore 
comfort one another with these words." I Thes. 4:13-18 

"Because I live ye shall live also." j no . 14:10. 

"Christ the first-fruits; then they that are Christ's, at His com- 
in f I Cor. 15:23. 

"Our Saviour Jesus Christ, who hath abolished death and hath 
brought life and immortality to light through the Gospel." 

II Tim. 1:10. 



To THE ONE WHO PASSED THROUGH THE DEEP WATERS WITH 

ME, HIDING HIS OWN GRIEF TO COMFORT AND SOFTEN 

MINE, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS. 



Chapter. 


Page. 


I. The Two .... 


12 


II. Preparation .... 


35 


III. Departure .... 


45 


IV. Conflict and Victory 


63 


V. God's Eternal Purpose . 


. 77 



Note. — This book is published privately, and may be obtained 
from the Shakespeare Press, 114-116 E. 98th St., New York City, 
or from Mrs. A. H. Stetson, Gloversville, N. Y. All profits ac- 
cruing from its sale will be devoted to missions. 



PREFACE 

The purpose which leads me to send forth this simple 
account of the taking of my two children is fourfold. 

First. In some respects it was a peculiar experience, 
and many of my friends do not know the circumstances, 
but suppose that some contagious disease removed both of 
my children thus, within two weeks of one another, 
whereas the diseases were entirely diverse and not in any 
way associated, unless the hidden grief of Margaret, after 
her brother was taken, hastened her trouble. 

Second. The circumstances and physical exhaustion 
which followed rendered it impossible for me to reply to 
the many notes of condolence which reached us from every 
quarter where we were known by friendship's ties and I 
as a Christian worker of years' standing, in work which 
had taken me to many quarters; and I wish through this 
little book to acknowledge the many sympathetic mes- 
sages with deep gratitude. 

Third. I have felt that some of the messages, clippings 
and poems sent were so helpful and comforting that they 
might carry a message to other hearts also, and many of 
them are incorporated in this little book. 

Fourth, and Supreme. The desire to bring glory to 
His name Who makes no mistakes in His dealings with His 
children; who sees, not as man in the light of this little 
life only, but in Eternity's light — the end from the begin- 
ning, and is fashioning His children for eternal service 

9 



10 PREFACE 

and glory. "For I reckon that the sufferings of this 
present time are not worthy to be compared with the 
glory which shall be revealed. " a Yea, and even in this 
life the Accepted Sorrow — "The furrow cut by pain" — 
is yielding rich fruit for Him. 

I trust that no one will consider this a literary attempt. 
It is simply — let me repeat — the recital of perhaps an 
unusual experience in an ordinary life. And yet, while 
to an extent unusual, to other hearts in this great world 
of humanity has come the similar sorrow of having all 
childish voices silenced in the home at one dread stroke. 
And to such, out of a common sorrow, would I speak, 
seeking even to comfort with the comfort wherewith I my- 
self have been comforted. a 



a Rom. 8:18. 
all Cor. 1:4. 



"I don't know how others saw her, 
But to me she was wholly fair, 
And the light of the heaven she came from 
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; 
For it was as wavy and golden, 
And as many changes took, 
As the shadows of sunlit ripples 
On the yellow bed of a brook. ,, 

— J. R. Lowell. 

"He seemed a cherub who had lost his way 
And wandered hither, so his stay 
With us was short, and 'twas most meet 
That he should be no delver in earth's clod, 
Nor need to pause to cleanse his feet 
To stand before his God, 
Oh, blest word, Evermore." 

— J. R. Lowell. 



11 



THE TWO. 

"To such belongeth the Kingdom of Heaven." — Matt. 
19:14 R. V. 

"A sweet new blossom of humanity 
Fresh fallen from God's own home to flower on earth." 
— Massey. 

"Two lovely berries molded on one stem." — Shakes- 
peare. 

Earnest eyes of deepest blue, 
From which looked a soul most true; 
Child, combined with woman staid, 
Was our gentle little maid. 

Sturdy, loving "Laddy dear," 
Filling our hearts with hope and fear; 
Mingled cup of care and joy, 
Was our bonny little boy. 

The Master softly called one day, 
And they left their play and went away, 
Taking to Heaven earth's deepest joy, 
Our gentle maid and bonny boy. 



12 



AFTERWARD 



CHAPTER I. 

The first to come to us was Margaret. That sweet Oc- 
tober day — how the sunshine of God's love seemed flood- 
ing everything around me and shining into the depths of 
my heart, revealing hidden recesses there that I had 
never dreamed of till illumined by this new light as I 
held my first-born in my arms and discovered mother love. 
And in the words of Emily Judson, I could say — 

"Oh, God, thou hast a fountain stirred 
Whose waters never more can rest." 

The little face and form were fair and perfect, even 
in earliest infancy. I had dreamed of, and longed for a 
little girl, and now she was mine, and how the gift tran- 
scended all my poor fancies I only knew as time went on 
and the little flower unfolded in all its beauty and fra- 
grance. 

I wish I might give you a true pen picture of our little 
girl, but words are inadequate to paint the richness of color 
and beauty of character which were hers. Hair of the 
purest gold, just beginning to shade into brown at her 
going; serious, earnest, deep violet eyes, which looked 
almost black at a distance; cheeks always aglow with color, 

13 



14 AFTERWARD 

and a dainty, graceful, little figure. Such was the "earthly 
house of her tabernacle/' which she left when the real 
self went out "to be clothed upon with the house which 
is from Heaven." a But, beautiful as this was, the new 
body which she wears, if, as I believe, it is to be a true 
expression of what we are, is still more beautiful. For I 
know it is not a mother's prejudice which leads me to say 
that she was a rarely sweet child. Others continually 
during her life and after she was gone bore testimony to 
this fact. 

One lady said, after a children's party which she had 
attended: "She reminded me of a little rosebud covered 
with the morning dew." 

"A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, 
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." 

— Byron. 

But from her retiring modesty, amounting almost to 
painful shyness at times, she was more like the sweet wood 
violet, quite content to hide away from view. And the 
Great Gardener knows where to find the rarest and choic- 
est flowers which will best flourish in and adorn His gar- 
den Up There. 

A young woman teacher, who had lived with us during 
her earliest childhood, wrote: "She has taught me to love 
all children better." 

Often I said to my husband: "God has been good to 
us in so richly endowing our little maid, mentally, physi- 
cally and morally." 

Mentally she was gifted in more than an ordinary way. 
She learned so easily that I scarcely knew when she did 

all Cor. 5:2. 



AFTERWARD 15 

it. In school she was the youngest in her grade, and al- 
ways at the head of her class, and when I went to see her 
teacher to remonstrate about letting her go on, she said: 
"It would be a shame to keep her back, for it is all easy 
for her and she does not work hard at all." This has 
been a comfort to me since, when the fear has arisen that 
possibly I let her tax her mind too much. 

When she first commenced to write, she danced into 
the room where I was one day, and slipped a little note 
into my hand, addressed simply "Mother." I unfolded it 
and read: "I loved you Mother, I love you Mother, I 
love you Mother. Margaret." She was very fond of 
writing. In fact, I never knew the child to be idle; 
when not romping and playing or reading, the dear, deft 
little fingers were always busy. Little scraps of paper 
with her drawings and writings on, kept coming to light 
in the most unexpected places in almost any part of the 
house after she was gone. One bit of paper bore this 
verse in her handwriting: "They that seek the Lord shall 
not want any good thing." It seemed as if it was a mes- 
sage from her from the other world, for she truly lacked 
"no good thing" whither she had gone. 

So secure did I feel in my children that, unlike most 
mothers, I saved none of their baby curls, but the day I 
took Margaret to the hair-dresser and had her beautiful 
golden curls shorn (they had grown again before she 
passed away), she picked up the brightest and longest of 
all, and, bringing it home, wrapped it in paper and gave it 
to me, and now that one precious golden curl is all I have 
in the world of what was mortal of my babies. 

Her best-loved companions were very little children 
and boys. During the last two years, Paul, with two other 
boys, one older and one younger than herself, were her 



16 



AFTERWARD 



constant companions. She loved their games, their romp- 
ing and racing. I wondered what the effect would be 
upon her, but never once in her wildest games did she 
appear anything but graceful and dainty. How she did 
it, I cannot imagine, but she kept her sweet gentleness 
always, and the boys loved her dearly and delighted to 
have her with them, and she in turn made them gentler. 
I have seen them instinctively check the rough act or word 
in her presence. Her hands were never dirty, her dress 
never soiled, even in her mud-pie sports, but all of the 
dirt which didn't cling to her clung to Paul, as well as 
his own allowance. 

But with all of this preference for the society of boys, 
she loved her dolls with all a girl's heart. They were 
almost human to her, but she never tried to interest her 
boy friends in them, instinctively fearing, I suppose, that 
they would not be appreciated, or feeling, with her quick 
sympathy, the unfitness of it. 

The little ones appealed to the mother which was so 
strong in her. One day that last winter, they were all out 
on the ice — she, with the three boys I have mentioned, and 
another about Paul's own age. The oldest boy, two years 
her senior, who, of all, was her favorite, did something 
which she considered an act of injustice to the little boy 
of whom I knew she was not so fond. Stamping her little 
foot, and with indignant, flashing eyes, she said: "You're 
not a nice boy, or you wouldn't do it." Upon his making 
some excuse, she repeated her assertion, and, taking Paul 
by one hand and the little fellow by the other, she led 
them into the house, and there giving up her own play 
and plans, she spent the morning diverting and amusing 
them. 

Only a day or two before she passed away, she called 



AFTERWARD 17 

Nursie's attention to some little gift which this favorite 
boy friend had sent in, and said: "That is from my very 
best friend." Nursie replied: "It's nice for little girls to 
be good friends/' "Oh, it's a little boy/' she replied. 
Then, with her quick appreciation of others' feelings, she 
said: "I suppose you think it strange that my very best 
friend should be a boy." 

She was nearly two and one-half years old when little 
Paul arrived, one night in March. The next morning she 
was taken in to see him. Fairly dancing back to her 
father, as he entered the room, she exclaimed: "Oh, 
Father, little Paul has come. See the little black head. 
Isn't he cute?" She had been told that God might send 
her a little baby brother and we would call him Paul. 

From that moment she adopted little Paul; with solici- 
tude and watch-care, almost the wisdom of a mother, she 
ever guarded and guided the uncertain steps of dear little 
Paul, shielding him from danger, defending him from 
older children, caring for his playthings. If Margaret 
was with Paul when out of my sight, I knew beyond the 
shadow of a doubt that he was safe so far as her vigi- 
lance and watch-care reached, and that when her power 
became limited, she would report to me. 

As an illustration of this devotion, almost pathetic 
in its intensity, I will relate an incident which occurred 
when Margaret was three and one-half and Paul one 
year old. I had dressed them for a walk, and, wheeling 
the carriage into which Paul was strapped out on to the 
front piazza, left them for a moment to put on my own 
wraps, Margaret standing by the carriage in her little 
cap and hood. Hearing a noise, I rushed to the door to 
see the baby carriage upside down at the foot of the 
steps, and a little heap of black velvet coat and white 



18 AFTERWARD 

cap lying on the board walk twelve or fifteen feet away. 
After ascertaining that the baby was alive under the car- 
riage^ and only slightly injured, I turned my attention to 
Margaret, whom the maid had picked up and carried into 
the house, and who, bruised and bleeding, presented a 
sorry sight. At first, we could not imagine what had 
happened to land them in the position in which we found 
them, until Margaret, looking regretfully into my face, 
said: "Mother, I tried so hard to hold it back, but I 
couldn't." She had probably accidentally started the car- 
riage, and, finding it going, had held onto the handle, and 
in her vain attempt to save Paul, had been hurled over 
the carriage and out on the walk, as it turned completely 
over in going down the steps, striking her face on the 
rough board walk. She was not seriously injured, al- 
though it seemed almost miraculous that she was not, but 
she carried the cruel marks on the tender little face for 
many days after. 

When a little older, a friend was taking the children 
for a walk one day. Coming to a railroad crossing, Paul 
was afraid to go over. Slipping one arm around him, and 
covering his eyes with the other hand and whispering 
words of assurance in his ear, she led the chubby little 
man, fully as large as herself, safely over. 

She was reliable and honorable to an unusual degree. 
One day I was going out to distribute some invitations in 
the neighborhood to some special women's meetings. I 
had with me at the time a young girl who assisted me with 
the children. I left her now with them. Both this girl 
and Margaret had asked where I was going, and I had 
replied that I did not wish them to know. Finding that I 
had forgotten something, I slipped back into the hall and 
overheard Margaret saying, in a pleading tone: "Don't, 



AFTERWARD 19 

Edna, please don't; Mother don't want us to know." Edna 
was trying to find out where I was going by watehing at 
the window, while Margaret's honorable nature would not 
permit her to take any unfair means of knowing. 

These are little things, but they illustrate the fineness 
of her nature. Conscientious to a fault, the simple ques- 
tion of duty determined action with her, and no entice- 
ment of sunshine or entreating companions could draw 
her from a task which needed to be performed until it 
was finished, and then, the happiest of the group, al- 
though always quiet, she would join in the fun. 

When we first started her to school, she had to pass by 
a house where there were some dogs. Dogs were her one 
fear, and for several days some member of the family 
went with her. But one morning, with a determined look 
on her face and a straightening of the tiny figure, she 
said: "I'll go alone this morning. I s'pose I've got to 
get used to dogs." Peculiarly strong in her attachment 
for home, intense and loyal in her love for her own, she 
seemed at times more a little woman than a child, and 
yet she was touchingly childish in these very traits. For 
example: The longest time I was ever separated from 
the children was five days in the summer of 1906, when 
Margaret was six years old, when I went to Northfield, 
leaving them with their father and grandmother. Mar- 
garet pined and grew sick under the separation, while 
Paul quite enjoyed the novelty and was happy as a lark. 

That same summer, when six years and ten months old, 
a tender and touching little experience occurred, which ever 
after meant much in her short life. I had always read and 
talked much with the children about Jesus and spiritual 
things, not withholding, as some parents think best, the 
story of His sacrifice for us. I always closed the day 



20 AFTERWARD 

with a little '"read" to them, usually after they were in 
bed, ending with some Bible story, read or told, which 
rarely fails to fascinate the childish mind when rightly 
presented. Sunday evenings I always devoted exclusively 
to them, and such sweet times as we had. I tried to 
make the day different from other days, and instead of 
its being a dull day to them, they looked forward to 
that day with keen anticipation. The Church and Sab- 
bath School, both of which they really enjoyed, in the 
morning; the afternoon usually with Father, who aban- 
doned himself as a willing victim and romped and played 
with them, or read to, or walked with them; and the even- 
ing with Mother. To this day two slips of paper mark 
the places in their Sunday books where I read on that 
last happy, well Sunday evening before they went away. 
After the reading we usually talked more at length than on 
other nights about these things. They, lying in bed, or 
climbing over my lap, opened up all the vistas of their 
childish minds to my willing ear, and, with shining eyes, 
would ask questions both childish and profound. How 
near these little ones are to the Unseen, from whence they 
come and to which they go, we older and wiser ones 
scarce know. "Heaven lies about us in our infancy," 
and "God hath hidden these things from the wise and 
prudent, and revealed them unto babes." 

On this particular Sunday in August, Paul, for some 
reason, had been put to bed early and had fallen asleep. 
Climbing into my lap, she whispered: "Tell me about 
Jesus, Mother/' Clearly the little soul was reaching out 
after a personal touch with Him deeper than she had 
known yet and about which she had heard. And so we 
talked, she asking questions and I answering and explain- 
ing. In the midst, we were interrupted by some member 



AFTERWARD 21 

of the family coming in, and she whispered: "Can't we 
go into the bed-room and finish, Mother ?" And there we 
both prayed, and she very simply, sweetly and definitely 
gave herself to the Saviour. This marked a definite ex- 
perience in the little life, and ever after that, until she 
went to be with Him Whom she loved as only the "little 
children in heart" can, she looked back to the event of 
that evening as a definite transaction which made her His 
little child in a peculiar sense. There was nothing forced 
or unnatural in this, nothing which made her less a child. 
It was the simple turning to Him of one upon whom was 
dawning a sense of a new personal relationship to God, 
and ever after, in any decision involving the course of 
right or wrong, she was influenced by the question: "What 
would please Jesus?" 

I have hesitated to tell of this little incident, both 
because of its sacredness and lest I touch a wound and 
cause to bleed afresh some conscientious mother-heart be- 
cause the little one now gone from her arms never had a 
similar experience. The suggestion in this case came from 
Margaret herself and I was ready to meet it. The time 
of such an experience in a child's life must depend both 
upon the maturity and training of the child. Margaret, 
both by reason of maturity and training, was ready for 
this step. Paul was fast becoming so, but no less ready 
for Heaven was my little lad, who went at six without 
this definite step. "To such belongeth the Kingdom of 
Heaven," and they are both now in the bosom of Him 
who loved little children and down here took them in 
His arms and blessed them. 

Only — Christian mothers — you who yet have your chil- 
dren with you here, see to it that this sacred privilege of 
leading your child to know and trust the Saviour is yours 



22 AFTERWARD 

and not another's. No, not the Sunday school teacher's, 
not the minister's, but yours. Much, very much, of sweet 
fellowship between mother and child is lost because these 
deepest things of the soul lie hidden, and the same is true 
often between husband and wife. We care for the mind, 
the body of our child, but when the awakening soul be- 
gins to reach out after the things of God, or the opening 
understanding seeks to know the mysteries of our being — 
the temple which God has given us — the cry is smothered 
because of a lack of freedom or responsiveness on our part, 
and to an outsider falls the unspeakably sweet privilege 
of being the child's confidant and spiritual guide, and 
many a bitter heartache the mother experiences, the 
cause of which she might trace to her own neglect or 
thoughtlessness. 

Guard well the soul gates of thy child. See to it that 
all that God committed to your charge, when He said: 
"Take this child and nurse it for me," b is done. He 
may ask it again of you at a moment's notice, and then 
you must lay down the work, though it tear your heart 
asunder to do so, and angels will take it up in the other 
world. See that it is complete, for complete it will be, 
though seemingly interrupted if well done by you. I ex- 
pect when I meet my children again that they shall say 
to me: "We found it as you told us, Mother, only bet- 
ter." I expect the sweet fellowship in Spiritual things 
which we had down here to be resumed Up There, only 
glorified and sanctified by the presence of the Great 
Teacher at Whose feet we shall sit. How can we mothers 
be content to feed our children upon the husks of worldly 
things, which fit them to shine for a little while in this 
life only, when the "Bread from Heaven" is within our 

bEx 2:9. 



AFTERWARD 23 

reach, which fits for eternal glory, and joy which the world 
knows nothing about comes from fellowship in these 
things with those dearest in earthly ties. 

Much more might I say about our little maid. What 
she was to me, only the Father knows, but He does know, 
and He knew when He asked me, after parting with our 
darling boy, to give her up, too, never to behold her again 
in the flesh. She satisfied me perfectly; too perfectly, I 
now know. A perfect gift from the Father's hand, she 
filled a longing in my heart which had never been filled. 
During the eight and one-half years of her life, she never 
caused father or mother pain. And she went — went back 
with all the sweetness and innocence with which she came, 
and with the addition of the faith we had taught her. 

"Our very lives were one. There could not be 
A deeper, purer tenderness than burned 
This trembling heart for thee. How could I then 
Ask aught for thee but happiness? In life 
When thou wast closely folded in these arms, 
And I did feel thy warm breath on my cheek, 
Thy smiling eyes fixed tenderly on mine, 
My prayers were full of pleading agonies 
Almost of earnestness, that Heaven would bless 
Thy opening day with joy and every good 
That might be deemed most proper. Oh, are not 
These prayers most fully answered ?" 

— Mrs. H. M. Dodge. 

Paul was the opposite of his sister in almost every re- 
spect. A dear, rollicking, genuine boy; full of fun and 
mischief; always doing and saying the unexpected. I 
often said: "I'm glad we've had the two," for I never 



24 AFTERWARD 

would have known what it meant to care for a child if we 
had only had Margaret. We never lacked for variety and 
amusement when Paul was around. He had a free and 
easy manner, and readily made friends wherever he was, 
especially among men, and upon short acquaintance was 
liked, as a rule, better than his shy little sister. 

Paul always broke the ice and saved the day in any 
company by his frank, unabashed manner and quaint re- 
marks. A remarkably strong and healthy child from his 
birth, and large of his age, he very soon outweighed his 
dainty little sister. People were wont to say of them: 
"They are the pictures of health." 

In appearance he was blue-eyed and fair-skinned, like 
his sister, without her glowing color and daintiness of 
feature, however, but truly masculine, with brown hair 
and sturdy little figure. What a joy and care he always 
was ! Little did we dream that this rugged, happy little 
boy, so human, so full of joy in this life, was intended 
so soon to enter upon the joys of that other life. 

With Margaret, it always seemed different. A friend 
said to me, only a few weeks before she was taken ill: 
"She seems almost an angel," but the remark caused me 
no uneasiness, so secure did I feel in my children and so 
certain that they were given me to train for His service, 
and so they were — the highest possible service — even in 
His very presence. 

Impulsive and headstrong in his nature, he would often 
blunder into dangerous situations and complications with 
other children, unless intercepted by his watchful little 
sister. They were exact complements of one another, and 
we used to say: "Paul needs Margaret," and we take a 
certain comfort in feeling that he needed her There, and 
that she is still leading and guiding those dear little feet. 



AFTERWARD 25 

One thing is certain: they are together still, and There, as 
here, they are happy in each other's presence. He was 
ever her joy and delight and her genuine pride in his 
childish achievements excelled our own, and he, in turn, 
accepted naturally her guardianship and yielded to her 
a more ready obedience than to us. This was the more 
surprising, in that he had a strong individuality and wil- 
ful nature, almost never obeying without a protest. 

They were inseparable as companions and playmates; 
one almost never saw the one apart from the other. "Paul, 
too?" was invariably her question when invited by the 
older children to join them in play or an afternoon at 
some home, and the others soon learned that unless Paul 
was included, an invitation had little attraction for her. 
Never separated in life, and for two short weeks only 
by death. How he must have watched for her coming 
that little time. 

When Margaret was six and Paul four, a friend was 
visiting us. We had all gone to a beautiful pine wood 
for the afternoon. My friend was fond of the beautiful 
things of the woods and so was Margaret. Suddenly Mrs. 
H called: "Oh, Margaret, come and see this beauti- 
ful piece of moss. ,, The children were standing on an 
embankment, some three feet above. Scarcely were the 
words put of her mouth, when Paul landed in a heap on 
top of the moss at her feet, while Margaret was carefully 
picking her way around. "I called Margaret/' drolly re- 
marked my friend, "but Paul arrived first." Thus they 
took life. Paul, impulsive, thoughtless, regardless of con- 
sequences; Margaret, careful, thoughtful, sure. 

I suppose that every mother treasures the childish say- 
ings of her children. Margaret's were sweet and poetic; 
Paul's quaint and original. As is true of all children 



26 AFTERWARD 

reared in Christian homes, where the things of Christ are 
talked about naturally and made much of, these things 
entered largely into their play and conversation. With 
Paul especially, who had an unquestioning faith, there 
was a vividness and reality about unseen things and a 
confidence in prayer which I think I never have found in 
any other, old or young. When a very small child, he 
had been frightened by a foolish servant girl, who told 
him there was a man in the dark cellar. This suggestion 
lent fuel to a naturally imaginative mind and a fear of 
things, places and situations was developed which all 
my efforts had been unavailing to allay. He was afraid 
to go to sleep alone, afraid when he awoke in the night, 
and many times either his father or I found it necessary 
to remain with him the remainder of the night after he 
had awaked. I again and again told him that God 
was stronger than anything which could harm him, and 
many similar arguments, but his fear was so genuine that 
we never could find it in our hearts to censure him. Sud- 
denly, when five years old, the trouble ceased absolutely. 
I did not refer to it for fear of a return, but one day he 
said to me: "Mother, do you remember that night I had 
such a bad dream and was so frightened? Well, you told 
me to pray God to take away the frightened, bad 
thoughts when they came, and I did, and they haven't 
bothered me any more since." Before my efforts had been 
"suggestive," but when I pointed him to the direct source 
of power, so absolute was his confidence in prayer, that 
he was heard and answered, that the trouble ceased. 
Something was done in answer to his faith, and he never 
showed any fear after that, in any way. 

Before that, when he was only four year old, I one day 
injured my hand so that it bled profusely. The sight 



AFTERWARD 27 

of the blood frightened him very much so that he turned 
very white. "Oh, why don't some one do something ?" 
he cried, then suddenly disappeared. Soon he was back, 
quiet, with a look of expectancy in the dear face. "It's 
better, isn't it, Mother?" he said. I replied that it was, 
the blood was stopped. "I just went and climbed up in 
the big chair in the parlor and asked God to make it 
better," he said, and soon he was shouting and rolling 
over the floor in some boyish prank. 

Dear little man ! There is satisfaction in remembering 
that this childish trust was never shaken. Christ was real, 
prayer was effective, Heaven was a place. He never had 
to come in contact with that hollow, meaningless type of 
Christianity, which professes Christ by an outward act, 
but denies Him by the life and renders powerless His 
principles and teachings as a working force in the world, 
which is so common and the influence of which I had 
dreaded for my children almost as much as direct sin, as 
they should grow older. 

The only real "scrap" I ever remember of their having, 
ended in this same refuge. On this occasion I was up- 
stairs and they be]ow playing. Some difference arose, 
which I very soon realized from the sounds which came 
up to me was growing more serious than any before. 
Soon I * heard cries, and I think there was some hair- 
pulling, then two weeping, heart-broken children came 
tearing up the stairs; each disappeared into a separate 
room, and silence reigned for a moment; then reappeared 
two shamefaced and tear-stained little ones. "Mother," 
said one, "we had an awful time, but we asked God to 
forgive us, and He has." The act was evidently spon- 
taneous with both. Thus ended their first and last quar- 
rel. They did not know the meaning of the word, 



28 AFTERWARD 

although both were strong in their personalities and pref- 
erences; sometimes one yielded and sometimes the other. 
I see no reason why children reared in homes where sharp 
words are never heard should quarrel, for children are 
sure indexes of the home spirit, the truest commentary 
on the life lived there. 

One day, less than two months before Paul went Home, 
he was visiting at his grandmother's; he made some re- 
mark in his play about moving. "Grandma don't ever 
want to move again, Paul/' she said. "But, Grandma," he 
replied earnestly, "you'll have to move once more, when 
you go to Heaven." About the same time, he, rolling a 
little steam engine over the floor, said: "Do they have 
steam engines in Heaven, Mother?" To this I replied: 
"I don't know, my boy, but if they don't, they will have 
something so much better that you won't miss them." 

When three years old, he had startled us at the break- 
fast table by asking if we supposed God was having cream 
potatoes for breakfast. When he heard thunder, he said 
he guessed God was rolling empty boxes together up in 
Heaven. At another time, after being naughty, he asked: 
"Can God see me when He is looking some other way?" 
How many have wished that God might be looking some 
other way at times ! 

On the very last Sunday evening, to which I have be- 
fore referred, when I last had them together well, I had 
read to them from their Sunday books. Paul's was the 
story of Judas' sin. Starting up from the bed and looking 
fixedly at me, he said: "Why did God let sin come into 
the world?" Feeling incompetent to explain to the child- 
ish mind, or to any mind, for that matter, I replied: "I 
don't know, Paul." "Well," he replied, settling back, 
"when I get to Heaven, I'm going to ask Jesus." In less 



AFTERWARD 29 

than two weeks he had gone into His presence, and I have 
no doubt but that He took the little man in His arms, as 
he did the little ones down here, and told him all he 
needed to know about this great problem of sin which so 
troubled him here, but which can never trouble him There, 
whose blight can never reach the pure, beautiful soul. 
Oh, my little Paul! My manly, fun-loving, boisterous 
little boy! — I wonder what you are doing There! How 
our poor, lonely hearts long for just one glimpse into that 
other life. 

I think that it was on this same evening that Margaret 
asked: "How does God get the little babies down to 
the mothers? Does He come and put them right in bed 
beside them?" A moment of silence, and Paul answered 
in his impulsive manner: "Why, He sends down an 
angel with them." This was perfectly satisfactory to 
both little minds, and as it was the truth, I needed to 
explain no further then. 

Our gentle little maid's sayings were so different. The 
tender heart was always quickly touched by the woes and 
misfortunes of others. Once, when she was four years 
old, I was showing her the picture of a little deformed 
girl. With indignation blazing from her usually gentle 
eyes, she asked: "Who made that little girl?" To my 
reply that God did, she said: "Well, what did He make 
her like that for?" What would you have said? You 
probably would have diverted her attention, as I did, to 
something else, but all the while you would have recog- 
nized the question as the forerunner of a host to follow 
which such a nature must wrestle with. 

Great as the mystery of sin and its results, yet a greater 
mystery is Calvary. Vainly as we may seek to reconcile 
the question of God's justice and love with existing con- 



30 AFTERWARD 

ditions caused by environment, heredity and the inequali- 
ties of life, methinks that when once the curtain which 
separates the Unseen from the Seen parts, and we catch 
but a glimpse of the whole, we shall exclaim: "Just and 
holy art Thou, Lord God Almighty !" Our duty as light 
bearers in this darkness is clear, and we must work while 
it is day, "for the night cometh when no man can work." 

The first time I attempted to read her the story of Jo- 
seph, when I came to the separation from his home and 
father, I had to stop. The sympathetic little heart 
couldn't stand it. Later I was able to tell her the story, 
softening it a bit, and the next day found her putting 
Paul in the pit with great enjoyment of the situation. 
Her love for the beautiful and imaginative was great. 
Flowers were a keen delight, and I can now see the dainty 
little figure in white, hardly more than a baby, stepping 
among the pansies, gently lifting the pretty faces, but 
never stepping on or harming one. 

One day, standing before a window in an upper hall, 
watching the bowing branches of a tree against the win- 
dow, she said: "Mother, the trees are saying 'How do 
you do' to me." At another time, after putting her in 
her little bed for the night, listening to the frogs which 
inhabited a nearby pond, "The little frogs are telling 
one another what they have been doing to-day." Many 
other sayings crowd my memory, but these suffice to illus- 
trate the temperament of each. 

But, with all Margaret's conscientiousness and beauty 
of character, Paul had the readier faith, both in God and 
man. His was the faith of abandonment. One day, after 
riding to his grandmother's on the handlebars of his 
father's bicycle, his grandmother asked: "Weren't you 



AFTERWARD 31 

afraid, Paul?" "What/' he replied in astonishment, "with 
my father ?" 

I never compelled them to attend church, but as I have 
said, they really enjoyed it, and always considered it a 
deprivation when they could not go, although it taxed 
our powers of invention to the utmost to keep Paul from 
attracting more attention from the surrounding pews than 
did the sermon, and with our best efforts we could not 
always glory in our success. But I think it was born in 
Margaret to love every part of the church service, and I 
associate with almost all of my church work at that period 
of my life the picture of a little golden head with a bright 
bow, at my side. 

Some will think from all that I have said that Mar- 
garet could not help being good, and had nothing in her- 
self to conquer, but this was not the case. Although it is 
true that she was naturally endowed with really noble 
traits, anything like smallness or deception being entirely 
foreign to her make-up, yet in her early childhood she, 
like Paul, was very determined and exacting and at times 
rebellious, but at a very early age she began conquering 
these traits, and much of her beauty of character when 
she left us had been acquired by little victories over self 
and self will. Especially after she came to know how to 
appropriate the power of that unseen Presence, she un- 
folded like a beautiful little flower, and the fruit of the 
Spirit was so manifest in that little child's life as to have 
shamed many a " full-grown" man in the Spiritual life. 

Many times I have swallowed the lump in my throat 
and turned my face away to hide my emotion, as I wit- 
nessed the self-abnegation in favor of Paul and others, 
the conquest over selfishness, the beautiful yielding of the 
proud little spirit. And the sweetest thing about it all 



32 AFTERWARD 

was her unconsciousness of any credit due herself. Her 
shyness prevented her from ever showing off before 
others, and those who knew her best appreciated her 
most. 

Friends could joke and frolic with Paul, but never with 
Margaret. She was too mature and dignified, and often 
on this account appeared at a disadvantage when Paul 
was around. She liked nothing better than to be un- 
noticed in a group, and yet this was impossible, for her 
natural beauty and grace, of which she was entirely un- 
conscious, always attracted attention. 



"Ransomed." 

O little hands that yesterday 

Plucked flowers amid the grass, 
In ecstasy of newer joy 

You reach where angels pass! 

O little feet but yesterday 

Bruised by some thorn of time, 
To-day there is no barb to fear 

Wherever you may climb. 

O little face but yesterday 

Drenched well in human tears, 
To-day, for you, time's woe is past, 

Its anguish-breath, its tears. 

O human soul to whom the King 

An angel sent to-day 
To bid you come, to set you free, 

Could Love have bid you stay? 

O chosen spirit, ransomed soon, 

How glad you are! and we 
Look upward from the quiet dust 

Your ecstasy to see." 

— By George Klingle. 



34 



CHAPTER II. 



PREPARATION. 



Made ready as a bride." — Rev. 21:2. 

'Children are God's apostles day by day, 
Sent forth to preach of love and hope and peace. " 

— J. R. Lowell. 



Travelling with God. 

My plans were made, I thought my path all bright and 

clear, 
My heart with songs o'erflowed, the world seemed full of 

cheer, 
My Lord I wished to serve, to take him for my guide, 
To keep so close that I could feel him by my side; 
And so I travelled on. 

But suddenly, in skies so clear and full of light 

The clouds fell thick and fast, the days seemed changed 

to night; 
Instead of paths so clear and full of things so sweet, 
Rough things and thorns and stones seemed all about 

my feet, 

I scarce could travel on. 

35 



36 AFTERWARD 

I bowed my head and wondered why this change should 

come. 
And murmured — "Lord is this because of aught I've 

done ? 
Has not the past been full enough of pain and care? 
Why should my path again be changed to dark from 

fair?" 

But still I travelled on. 



I listened — quiet and still, there came a voice — 
"This path is mine, not thine, I made the choice; 
Dear child, this service will be best for thee and me, 
If thou wilt simply trust and leave the end to me." 

And so we travel on. — J. M. M. 



The fall of 1907^ both the children were in school. 
Paul entered that fall; Margaret had started two years 
before. With some assistance from me at home, she had 
made rapid progress, so that at her going she could read 
quite readily simple children's books. 

Before this they had passed safely through all of the 
children's diseases, and I found myself anticipating an 
uninterrupted course of study, ending with college. How 
proud I was as I would start them off for school, Paul 
chaperoned by Margaret, and a proud and happy day it 
was for her when this privilege became hers. But, in- 
stead of an uninterrupted course of years, the short, sunny 
days of this autumn ended their earthly school life. They 
went together to complete their education at the feet of 
the Great Teacher, and there in His school to-day, they 
are learning lessons which no earthly teacher could have 
taught them. And for me, too — 



AFTERWARD 37 

"Some day the bell will sound, 
Some day my heart will bound, 
As with a shout 
That school is out 
And lessons done 
I homeward run." — M. D. Babcoclc, 

Early December found my little girl failing in health. 
The cause of her trouble could not at first be determined. 
By Christmas day, she was quite ill. The doctor at that 
time thought it a mild attack of typhoid fever, but in a 
few days it proved to be inflammatory rheumatism. Yet 
that last Christmas was a bright one for all, as we did 
not then consider her illness dangerous. 

She had her many gifts on her bed, while Paul enjoyed 
the day with all a boy's keen delight in tool chest, books 
and automatic animals. Among the latter was a seal, 
which, when wound up, went wiggling over the floor. I had 
occasion a few days after to reprimand him for some 
misdeed. Drawing him to me with one arm around him, 
I talked to him earnestly for a few moments, endeavoring 
to show him the error of his way. As I paused, he 
lifted his eyes respectfully to my face, to see if I had 
finished, and instantly turning again to the seal he held 
in his hand and upon which his eyes had been fixed, said : 
"Mother, do real seals have pink stomachs ?" That ques- 
tion had been engrossing his attention while I delivered 
my lecture and while I thought him deeply impressed. 
That was the kind of an impression my lectures usually 
made upon him. 

For a few days following Christmas, Margaret grew 
rapidly worse, suffering intensely, but her father and I 
cared for her alone, taking turns in the sweet ministry, 



38 AFTERWARD 

lifting her and bathing and bandaging the swollen little 
limbs. 

One morning after he had cared for her during the 
night, she said to me with compunction, and yet with a 
twinkle in her eyes: "I scolded father awful last night, 
but he told me this morning he didn't mind." She knew 
her big-hearted, loving father — tender and gentle as a 
woman in the sick-room — too well to dream that he would 
care. She knew how many times the sly glance had 
brought the coveted tit-bit from father's plate to hers, 
not, however, without an apologetic look at mother, for 
mother was more rigid in her rule. She knew how easy 
it was to beguile his leisure hours from easy-chair and 
book, to story telling or romping over the floor. She knew 
how many weary blocks the strong arms had carried Paul 
to and from church upon his sudden attacks of weariness, 
which never occurred when mother's arms only were 
available. Yes, father was an easy mark, and the children 
knew it. Those who have suffered with this particular 
trouble and know the agony caused by the slightest jar, 
even a footfall upon the floor, will readily understand how 
even so gentle a creature as our little Margaret could 
"scold." 

The doctor had said: "You must watch her heart 
carefully," and then the day came when he looked grave, 
as he said: "The disease has affected her heart some- 
what." For a moment a wild fear gripped at my heart, 
and a question which would not be put aside demanded 
an answer: "If He asks it, am I willing to let her go?" 
All winter my soul had reached out with a new longing 
after a deeper surrender than I had known of late. 
"Search me, oh God, and know my heart; try me and 
know my thoughts, and see if there be any wicked way 



AFTERWARD 39 

in me, and lead me in the way everlasting/' a had been 
my constant prayer. 

As I had asked Him to search me, looking into my 
heart and life, I had always paused when I reached her. 
I could lay all else at His dear feet, but could I my chil- 
dren, and especially Margaret — my first-born, my constant 
solace and delight; she who seemed more of Heaven than 
of earth? I would always pause here and say: "I don't 
know, Lord; I don't know." When the test comes, if it 
ever does, I shall then know." 

And now the time had come and I faced the question as 
I never had before. Now it must be answered. She was 
His first. He had given her to me. I had consecrated 
them both to Him before they were born and many times 
since had renewed the consecration, but always for service 
here. Now something seems to whisper: "Is she mine 
for service There, if I so will it?" And after a fierce 
little struggle, I said: "Yes." And I meant it, so far as 
I knew. A perfect Peace filled my heart and I went 
quietly about my duties. Oh, these deceitful human 
hearts ! This was all He wanted of me at the time. He 
was gently preparing me for what must come — the night 
of awful blackness, when not one but both of my darlings 
should be snatched from my arms, and I in childless 
agony should lie stunned and moaning at His feet. But 
not now, a few more days of glad motherhood, of gath- 
ering Heavenly fragrance from these little blossoms. 

By New Year's Day she was better. The doctor warned 
us to watch carefully her heart, not allowing her to run 
or exercise violently for a time. "It isn't right," he said; 
"but she will probably outgrow it." It seemed a little 

a Psm. 139: 23, 24. 



40 AFTERWARD 

thing to me as long as I had my little girl back from 
the Borderland. 

The sweet days that followed! How can I truly de- 
scribe them? I had both my babies with me all day 
long. Paul, never sufficient of himself, but always need- 
ing the steadying influence of Margaret, after numerous 
wettings by the wayside and muddy frays with the other 
children, was taken out of school and had his lessons at 
home. I am sure that I never enjoyed my children as 
much as during those few short weeks. I taught them, I 
played their games with them, I lived their life with them, 
I gave myself without reserve to them, and when the 
thought would intrude that perhaps I was too absorbed 
in them, I would tell myself that it was only for a little 
while, they would soon be back in school again. And truly 
it was but for a little while. Do I regret the painstaking 
care, the devotion to them, not only at this time, but in 
their babyhood years ? No ! A thousand times, no ! God 
had given them to me. They were my first care. I was 
training them for Him, as I supposed, to live for and 
serve Him in this world of suffering and sin, to meet the 
responsibilities and problems of life, not as weaklings, un- 
acquainted with any of the hardships of life, nor yet with 
the disadvantage with which early neglect and misgovern- 
ment endow a child, but with the strength of self-control 
and intelligence, and, above all, a steadfast trust in the 
Strong One able to keep; and, eventually, I thought, I 
am training them for a Heavenly Kingdom. No, now 
that He has taken the work from my hand, I am glad 
for all of the hours I gave them. It was a sweet privilege, 
and I am glad now that I did not trust them to unskilled 
or unloving hands to care for. My only regret is that it 
was not better done. And as I look back now, I thank 



AFTERWARD 41 

Him again for those last sweet weeks with them, the con- 
stant association with both, the sweet little confidential 
talks together. * 

One evening in particular, I took Margaret upon my 
lap in her little night-dress, and wrapping the little figure 
close in my arms, we looked out upon the glistening, new- 
fallen snow. A strange, almost heavenly spell seemed 
to settle down upon us. "Isn't it beautiful ?" she whis- 
pered. Then I repeated softly: "Though your sins be as 
scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be 
red like crimson, they shall be as wool." a She had already 
memorized this verse. Then, with a few words of expla- 
nation, I drew the comparison between the whiteness of 
the snow and the whiteness of our hearts, which God 
makes white. As I talked, her eyes grew bright and seri- 
ous with intelligence, and I knew she had caught the 
meaning of "as white as snow/' and that through life the 
verse would speak to her in this way. 

After that night, many times when she was ready for 
bed, she would whisper: "Can't we have a little talk 
to-night, instead of a 'read' ?" And Paul, always ready 
to have his father assume charge, would hie away, and 
from father's comfortable arms would listen to the read- 
ing while we had our little talk, and knowing her intense 
delight* in being read to, I realized that these little talks 
were very dear to her, as they were to me. 

Again I say, how sweet were these days. How memory 
lingers around them, and they seem now almost sacred. 
Tender was our Heavenly Father — infinitely tender. He 
dealt the blow as gently as He could. He let me have 
those days as a last sweet full draught of earthly bliss. 
Much I have thought as a family gathers for the last 

a Isa. 1:18. 



42 AFTERWARD 

quiet evening with only loved ones before a beloved child 
goes out from the home nest for the first time. Our 
birdies were soon to leave the home nest, and He only 
knew it, and He was getting them ready for the flight — 
and us. Yes, He who alone knew what it was going to 
mean to us was getting us, too, ready, and He knows 
how poorly prepared we were, even then, to meet it. But, 
oh, the hearts that do not know Him as the "God of all 
comfort !" It is little wonder that an early grave, the 
insane asylum, or the suicide's fate often affords a speedy 
relief for such. 

As the dragon-fly increases in brilliancy as it prepares 
to take its flight from its watery home, so more and more 
beautiful grew these little lives as the time of their de- 
parture from their earthly home drew nigh. Never did 
Margaret seem so gentle and happy. Never did dear little 
Paul seem so near Heaven's gates. In play and in con- 
versation, Heaven was more realistic than ever. Thus 
passed January and February — all too swiftly. 




MARGARET, AGED THREE. 



Our Children Welcomed in Heaven. 

"Oh, what do you think the children say?" 

Said the children up in heaven. 
"There's a dear little girl coming home to-day, 

She's almost ready to fly away 

From the earth we used to live in. 

Let's go and open the Gates of Pearl, 

Open them wide for this dear little girl/' 

Said the children up in Heaven. 

"God wanted her here, where his little ones meet," 

Said the children up in Heaven. 
"She shall play with us in the Golden Street; 

She had grown too fair, she had grown too sweet 

For the earth we used to live in. 

She needed the sunshine, this dear little girl, 

That gilds this side of the Gates of Pearl," 

Said the children up in Heaven. 

"So the King called down from the Angel's dome," 
Said the children up in Heaven, 
" 'My little darling, arise and come 

To the place prepared in Thy Father's Home, 
The Home that my children live in.' 
Let's go and watch at the Gates of Pearl, 
Ready to welcome the new little girl," 
Said the children up in Heaven. 



43 



44 AFTERWARD 

"Far down on the earth, do you hear them weep?" 

Said the children up in Heaven, 
"For the dear little girl has gone to sleep. 

The shadows fall and the night clouds sweep 

O'er the earth we used to live in. 

But well go and open the Gates of Pearl, 

Oh, who do they weep for, their dear little girl?" 

Said the children up in Heaven. 

"Fly with her quickly, oh, angels dear!" 

Said the children up in Heaven. 
"See! She is coming. Look there! look there, 

At the jasper light in her sunny hair, 

Where the veiling clouds are riven. 

Oh, hush, hush, hush! The swift wings furl, 

For Jesus, himself, at the Gates of Pearl, 

Is taking her hand — dear, tired little girl, 

And leading her into Heaven." 

— Selected. 



CHAPTER III 



DEPARTURE, 



"What I do thou knowest not now but thou shalt un- 
derstand hereafter." — John 13:7. 

"I was dumb, I opened not my mouth because Thou 
didst it."— Ps. 39:9. 

"My Lord hath need of these flowers gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled; 
"Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where He was once a child." 
# •* # 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love; 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

— H. TV. Longfellow. 

On Saturday, February 28, Paul complained of not 
feeling well, but by night seemed all right. That after- 
noon I gave them their usual Saturday bath, and dressed 
them in fresh clothes. It was the last day I had my 
children both well. 

The next morning found Paul quite ill with one of his 
old turns of nausea. These had troubled him from baby- 

45 



46 AFTERWARD 

hood, but as none of the doctors we had consulted seemed 
to consider them of a serious nature, and Margaret had 
had similar attacks till five years of age, and other moth- 
ers told me of their children being troubled in a similar 
way in early childhood and outgrowing it, we really had 
never been alarmed over them, and of late had been quite 
at rest, as they were growing less frequent. Now we be- 
lieve there was some serious cause back of the ailment. 
What it was, we shall never know. This morning we im- 
mediately summoned a physician, who came before church. 
From the beginning this attack assumed a more violent na- 
ture than those heretofore. The doctor resorted to every 
known remedy to check the vomiting, but without avail. 
Monday and Tuesday passed, and still it was unchecked. 

Tuesday evening I went with my Sunday school class 
of young women to conduct a cottage prayer meetings 
my husband caring for Paul. I went with a heavy heart 
and a sense of foreboding. I conducted the service with 
that same feeling of depression upon me, and yet many 
afterward spoke of the help my words were to them. I 
took for my subject, "All Things," developing it in the 
following manner: 

1. All things are under His feet. — Eph. 1:22. 

2. We possess all things in Him. — Rom. 8:32. 

3. All things work together for good to them that love 

God. — Rom. 8:28. 
• 4. Even the seeming evil. — Gen. 45:8; Gen. 50:20. 

5. In all things we may be more than conquerors. — 

Rom. 8:37. 

6. We are to praise Him for all things. — Eph. 5:20. 

I little knew how soon I was to be called upon to prove 
to the world that I meant what I was saying. But I re- 
call now how, even as I spoke, a pain shot through my 



AFTERWARD 47 

heart, as a vision of the little pale face on the pillow at 
home came before me. 

Wednesday there was little nausea and the physician 
pronounced him over the attack, only very weak. He 
owned himself baffled as to the cause, and recommended 
consultation to ascertain, if possible, the cause. That 
afternoon — Wednesday — at five o'clock, the consultation 
was held. The verdict was: "He is well over this attack, 
but we do not know the cause." Their recommendation 
was a specialist from Albany. His visit was arranged 
for the next afternoon, they assuring me that there was 
no cause for haste in the matter. At half-past five they 
left the house, assuring me that all was well, but my heart 
was like lead. A mother's intuition told me that my little 
Laddy was very ill, and that I had utterly failed in mak- 
ing the physicians realize this fact, hard as I had tried, 
pointing out to them his extreme weakness, his restless 
tossing, his cold hands and feet. Eagerly I looked for 
the morrow and the coming of the specialist for help. 

That night his father and I, as usual, took turns in 
watching by him. I relieved my husband at three o'clock, 
and remained with him till morning. I anxiously noted 
the symptoms, w T hich seemed to me worse. Yet the doc- 
tors had said he was better, so I tried to quiet my fears. 
At seven o'clock, I stepped from the room for a moment, 
and, hearing a little sigh, I hastened back. I saw in- 
stantly that our darling boy was leaving us without a mo- 
ment's warning. I hastily called his father and tele- 
phoned the doctor, but in a moment he had gone from us. 

Four days of illness and then swiftly and silently the 
spirit took its flight — our darling baby boy had gone to 
the Saviour and to the Heaven he talked so much about. 
Quickly the news spread, and notes of sympathy and 



48 AFTERWARD 

flowers came pouring in. It seemed as if I had never 
before known what suffering meant. The sudden shock, 
the haunting thought: "If I had only known his condi- 
tion and had done more and differently." This, I find, is 
a torturing thought to nearly all who have lost loved ones, 
doubling the agony of the loss. I learned after a while 
to deal with it with a firm hand somewhat in this man- 
ner: "You did all you knew to do and you supposed you 
were doing the best for him in every way. You could not 
know his real condition, for you are only human. You 
were trusting God and looking to Him for guidance. God 
knew his condition and could have some way shown you 
a different course, if that would have saved him and if 
that had been His will. But it was not. He wanted 
your little boy, and He took him in His own time and 
way. He is 'With Christ which is far better'." And to- 
day I would not dare, if I had my choice, take the re- 
sponsibility of bringing him back to the dangers and suf- 
ferings of this world. And so, after months of suffering, 
I was enabled to shut the door on these haunting regrets. 
Those two days before the funeral I was selfish, I fear, 
in my grief. I spent hours alone, wrestling with it, and 
almost forgetting my little maid and how the tender heart 
must be aching for the little companion she so dearly loved. 
We had feared the effect upon her, and had broken the news 
very gently to her, simply telling her that little Paul 
had gone to be with Jesus. But she received the news 
quietly, not realizing, we thought, its meaning, but when 
she saw me weeping, she said, in a sweet attempt to com- 
fort and with a wisdom from Above, which is sometimes 
given to these babes: "He is so happy, Mother," and 
several times during those terrible days she whispered 
that in my ear. Dear trusting little ones, how much richer 



AFTERWARD 49 

they leave our lives, even though we only keep them for 
a little while. 

On Saturday, March 7, the funeral was held at three 
o'clock. Dear Miss Heagle sang: "Out of the Shadow- 
land. " The beautiful song carried a message to many 
hearts. 

Out of the Shadowland. 

"Out of the shadowland, into the sunshine, 
Cloudless, eternal that fades not away; 
Softly and tenderly Jesus hath called him 

Home where the ransomed are gath'ring to-day. 

Chorus. 
Silently, peacefully, angels have borne him 

Into the beautiful mansion above. 
There shall he rest from earth's toiling forever — 

Safe in the arms of God's infinite love. 

Out of the shadowland, weary and changeful, 
Out of the valley of sorrow and night; 

Into the rest of the life everlasting, 
Into the summer of endless delight. 

Out of the shadowland, over life's ocean, 
Into the rapture and joy of the Lord; 

Safe in the Father's House, welcomed by angels, 
His the bright crown and eternal reward." 

The weather was so severe and the snow so deep, even 
in March in this cold climate, that we did not put the 
little body in the ground, but temporarily in the receiving 
vault, little dreaming that it was to wait there two short 



50 AFTERWARD 

weeks only for the little sister, that both might be laid 
to rest in one little bed. 

The next day, March 8, was Paul's birthday. He 
would have been six years old. We did not go to church 
that morning, but made up many bouquets from the abun- 
dance of cut flowers. The made pieces we had sent with 
the casket. We took them to the hospital and distributed 
them ourselves in the various wards and rooms, with a 
personal word from me about the blessed Christ to weary- 
hearted ones with pain-racked bodies. The wound was 
fresh and bleeding, and the terrible pain kept tugging 
at my heart, but I did for a few minutes put it aside in 
this attempt to minister to others. How interested and 
sympathetic Margaret was, as she tripped by my side 
that day, and how beautiful she looked in dark-blue hat 
and coat, contrasting with the fair curls and cheeks glow- 
ing with sympathetic excitement. How our hungry hearts 
clung to her that one well day, and we said to one an- 
other: "We've got Margaret left. Let us thank Him 
for her." I remember that she prepared one bouquet 
with especial care for a little girl at the hospital, and a 
pretty picture they made, gazing at one another — the fair 
little visitor and the dark little patient. 

At the mid-day meal on Sunday it was the family cus- 
tom for each member to repeat a verse of Scripture and 
give the location, those failing, paying a fine according 
to the degree of failure. Margaret always attended to 
seeing that the fine was paid, and the bringing forth of 
the receptacle for the money. The money was to be 
used for missions, and when the little bank was opened 
after she had gone from us, it was found to contain quite 
a little sum, which went towards a child's crib in a hospi- 
tal in India. 



AFTERWARD 51 

On this Sunday, she came with her own Bible, which I 
had given her on her eighth birthday — the fulfilment of 
a promise of two or three years' standing of a Bible when 
she could herself read it — and asked me what she should 
memorize for her verse for the day. I told her something 
from the fourteenth of John. When the time for reciting 
the verses came, she repeated all of John 14:1-3, pausing 
at the last sentence. Strangely fitting, almost prophetic, 
these words seemed to us a few days later, although at 
the time we were only thinking of our little Laddy, who 
had so recently gone to those "mansions prepared." At 
her funeral, two weeks later, Rev. C. F. Ralston referred 
to this incident. 

That was the only well day after Paul's funeral, and 
even that day she complained of slight pains in her 
hands, but we attributed them to another cause than a 
return of the rheumatism, but the next day they were 
worse, and by Tuesday she was quite ill again and under 
the doctor's care, although we did not consider it serious. 

Thursday morning, at three o'clock, she insisted upon 
her father, who was watching by her, awakening me, and 
said: "Mother, it's my heart; you said I must tell you 
at once if I ever felt any pain there, for that would be 
serious." How characteristic of Margaret's trustworthi- 
ness this was. Every bit of pain had left the limbs and 
centered in the wildly beating little heart. From that 
hour began a week of terrible strain and anxiety. A bat- 
tle waged for the life of our little girl, our only remain- 
ing child. Life and death fought for victory in our little 
home, while over our hearts crept the shadow of a second 
great loss, gradually enveloping and settling down upon 
us until it held us in its relentless grip. 

The pain of Paul's going was for the time forgotten 



m AFTERWARD 

in this new anxiety. Already weakened by the strain of 
the first loss and an attack of grip just preceding that, I 
could neither eat nor sleep, but with the trained nurse sat 
hour after hour at that little bedside. This time we were 
not ignorant of the dangerous nature of the malady, and 
everything which human power and earthly skill could 
do was done to save the precious life. Consultations of 
local physicians were held, and the specialist came from 
Albany, but most of all we depended upon God and 
looked to Him to use the means and bring about the res- 
toration of our child. Surely it could not be that God 
would take her, too, and yet I will now confess that some- 
thing even from the first told me that it was to be so, but 
I would not admit it. 

Much prayer went up in the home those days. My 
husband and I prayed alone and together, offering our- 
selves anew to God in a fuller service than ever before — 
offering our all, but oh, pleading to be allowed to keep 
this remaining child. We needed her so. We wanted her 
for His glory and service, we told Him. 

A service of prayer with special friends was also held in 
the home. At this service some of the most earnest men 
and women from all of the churches were gathered, and 
one and all poured out their hearts for the life of our 
child. Never shall I forget the entreating agony almost, 
of the prayer of our pastor, Rev. C. F. Ralston, as he 
plead with God that she might be spared to us and for 
God's service. He came close to our stricken hearts those 
days. It seemed as if no human being could have felt 
more deeply, but God had yet deeper lessons to teach 
him in the gentle art of sympathy, in His own School of 
Sorrow, that he might know how to go in and out the 
stricken homes of his flock and bind up with more skilful 



AFTERWARD 53 

touch wounded hearts, that others might turn to him and 
say: "Now we know that you know." For in six months 
his little dark-eyed, sunny haired Helen, the baby of their 
little flock, a year younger than little Paul, was called to 
join the host of little ones playing on the Other Shore. 

The sympathy of the public was deeply roused by this 
impending double calamity. We were widely known in 
religious circles, and we afterward heard of much prayer 
which had been offered in public and in private that we 
might be spared this second loss. One clergyman re- 
marked: "If prayer can save her, she will be spared," 
but never for one single instant through it all did I have 
the assurance that she would be spared. Did God hear 
all of this prayer that went up, not in mere form, as I 
sometimes think we pray for public officials or things not 
directly affecting our lives, but from warm hearts which 
ached and throbbed with ours? 

"Did He hear?" I say. Most assuredly. What dif- 
ference then, did all of this prayer make? She went, and 
to-day we are childless. Did He hear and turn a deaf 
ear? No. He heard, and said: "No," while His own 
heart ached for "In all their affliction, He was afflicted. " a 
He said: "I have higher purposes to fulfill than the 
lengthening of this life. Give her to me, and I will keep 
her for you, and then give me your life and my glory 
shall shine through to others." I can trust you with this 
sorrow, to walk in the dark for a little while until the 
light from yonder shore shall break, and yet not in the 
dark, for all around us to-day shines the light of His pres- 
ence. 
"Some time, when all life's lessons have been learned, 

And suns and stars fore'vermore have set, 

a Tsa. 63:9. 



54 AFTERWARD 

The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, 

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, 
Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, 

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue, 
And we shall see how all God's plans were right, 

And how what seemed reproof was love most true. 
And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, 

God's plans go on as best for you and me; 
How, when we called, He heeded not our cry, 

Because His wisdom to the end could see. 

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breadth, 
Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend; 

And that sometimes the sable pall of death, 
Conceals the fairest boon His love can send." 

— May Riley Smith. 

May I pause in my narrative to say one word? I 
wonder in my heart of hearts just how far we should en- 
treat God to spare human life. Rather it would seem 
after my experience should we ask that His highest pur- 
pose may be fulfilled. With Paul, that "Christ may be 
magnified in my body, whether by life or by death. " a 
Surely our childish crying will not deter Him from car- 
rying out His highest purpose through our lives or in 
our lives, for He is fashioning them into His likeness and 
for service here and There. To some in this matter has 
He granted their request, but they have lived to ex- 
perience "leanness of soul." b And again some mothers 
who would not say: "Thy will be done," have had the 
child spared and have lived to pray that it might be 
taken. 

a Phil. 1:20. 
b Ps. 106:15. 



AFTERWARD 55 

During Margaret's illness, terrible as her suffering was 
at times, she never lost her thoughtfulness for others. I 
never saw a more thoughtful consideration for others. 
And I do not recall one selfish act or word during the 
entire time. She loved to have me by her, and yet it 
seemed to worry her that I was up so much nights, and 
she would entreat me to go to bed. To the nurse she 
would say apologetically, when she preferred me to wait 
on her: "You know, Nursie, no one can do things like 
my own dearest mother/' 

The constant nausea she suffered made it very trying 
for her to take medicine or nourishment, and she would 
often look imploringly at me and say: "Pray, Mother, 
then I can." And she could and did. 

This thoughtfulness for others remained as long as 
consciousness remained. A few hours only before she 
left us I lay for a moment at her side on her bed, because 
I knew how she loved to have me. "Are you comfortable, 
Mother?" she asked. Then quickly, "How can you be — 
I'm taking up all the room." Again, when lying at her 
side, she noticed that a small pillow which I usually 
used when I lay down in the daytime had been placed 
under her little side in an effort to make the little heart 
more comfortable. Quickly reaching for it, she would 
have drawn it out to give me, had I not stopped her. 

How I admired my little daughter at times, and many 
lessons she taught me. The nurse said to me: "You don't 
seem like mother and daughter. You seem like compan- 
ions." To me she was both. Our many, sweet, confiden- 
tial talks are among my choicest memories. Her keen 
comprehension, her quick sympathy, her rare mental and 
spiritual development, made her a coveted companion un- 
der almost all circumstances. 



56 AFTERWARD 

On Wednesday afternoon, at three o'clock, nearly one 
week from the time she was taken seriously ill, the end 
came. I was by her alone when I saw the change com- 
ing. For two days we had given her hypodermics to 
quiet her and give relief from the terrible pain. The 
nurse had now gone to prepare for one, which she so 
dreaded, the prick of the needle sending a shiver through 
the little frame, already nervously racked to the highest 
pitch. I held her in my arms while it was given. I won- 
der if you mothers can understand my feelings when I 
say that it was with a feeling of relief that I quietly said 
to the nurse as she returned: "You needn't give it; there 
is no need," for I realized that in a few minutes the little 
pain-racked body would be free forever from suffering. 
She realized it, too, for lifting her eyes, she said: "I 
want to die, Mother/' "Yes, Baby," I said, "you are go- 
ing to Jesus and little Paul." Then a look of pain in- 
stantly crossed her face, and stretching her arms towards 
me, she cried: "Oh, I can't leave you, Mother." "I am 
coming, darling," I said. Immediately the peace came 
back to the dear face. "Jesus is here, Baby, right here," 
I said. "Don't be afraid; He will take you." The nurse, 
who stood by, whispered: "Talk to her some more that 
way. It quiets her." And so, whispering words of assur- 
ance and stroking the fair brow, I passed my last, my 
all, the dearest treasure on earth, over into the strong arms 
of Jesus, with the peace in my heart that day "which 
passeth all understanding," and a quiet assurance that it 
was only a separation for a little while, which He, in 
His infinite wisdom, deemed best. 

There was no vision of angels, no glimpse into the Un- 
seen, as is so often recorded of death-bed scenes. There 
was that which was better — Himself, A sense of His 



AFTERWARD 57 

presence, so strong, so comforting, so assuring, that 
neither she nor I needed the other. It held me in a great 
calm, and I left the room finally when all was over with a 
quiet I had not felt for three weeks. 

Skeptic — I cannot explain this to you. You would not 
understand if I tried, for "The natural man receiveth not 
of the things of the Spirit of God, but they are foolishness 
unto him, neither can he know them for they are spiritu- 
ally discerned, ,,a but I know that in that room that day 
stood a presence, majestic, tender, all-sufficient for such 
an hour. Think you that He did not receive that gentle 
spirit to His Bosom, or that the reality as those eyes 
opened in that Other Land was less than the teaching had 
been, or that little Paul was not waiting to welcome the 
little companion from whom He had been separated less 
than two weeks, or that He, The Faithful One, will not 
fulfil for me the promise I made my darling, and bring 
me to her when He has done His will through me here? 
It is yours to doubt if you choose, but as for me — "I know 
Him whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is 
able to guard that which Fve committed unto Him against 
that day." b And I only tarry here a little longer to 
finish the work He has given me to do, and then my 
eager feet shall hasten to make good that promise which 
she, amidst the joys and service of that Life, has not 
forgotten. 

Mothers who have trodden this path, who have watched 
the breath go out and the form grow still of the loved 
one, a very part of yourself, perhaps your all, which 
you have borne and nurtured and tended, but who will 
never need you again here — have you this only comfort 

a I. Cor. 2:14. 

bll. Tim. 1:12. R.V. 



58 AFTERWARD 

left the torn and anguished heart, of again, after only a 
little while, clasping these loved ones to your bosom, never 
to part from them again? 

"I shall go to Him, but He shall not return to me," c 
said David. 

"A day and we shall meet, 
A night and we shall greet." 

— M. D. Babcock. 

The fragrance of that parting scene lingered during the 
immediate days which followed, and the quiet filled my 
heart until the funeral was over. My children were to- 
gether and with Him, and I would soon go, was my 
thought. In a sense I know I was stunned; what it was 
going to mean to me when these few days should be over, 
I could not anticipate, but now there was a sort of a 
reacting calm from the terrible strain and agony of the 
previous weeks, and I, like David, in the case of the child, 
"arose and worshiped." I took a certain comfort, too, in 
performing the last sweet ministries for her. My own 
hands arranged the soft curls and tied them with the white 
ribbon, and prepared the lacy white dress of last summer. 
She was beautiful in this last sleep as in life. Many 
afterward spoke of her angelic beauty, as she lay in the 
white casket, exactly like Paul's, surrounded with white 
rosebuds. The waxen features, not in the least emaciated 
or hinting of the week of intense suffering, but round and 
full as in health — only so white, the bright cheeks. The 
only bit of color — the shining golden curls. 

Have I lingered too long over these last days of my 
children? Let me remind you that these pages are in- 
tended in particular for those who are interested in the 
c II. Sam. 12;23. 



AFTERWARD 59 

details. If any others should chance to read them, those 
who have walked the same way will understand. 

The public faith, as our pastor expressed it, seemed 
staggered at this second bereavement, and realized how 
futile were words to express the language of the heart in 
the deepest crises of life. Many said to me afterwards: 
"I was dumb. I could find no words to write you." 
Many, however, did send helpful and comforting mes- 
sages. 

On Saturday, March 21st, at three o'clock, exactly two 
weeks from the time of Paul's funeral, Margaret's was 
held. We buried both now. Side by side, in one grave, 
in two little white caskets our darlings are sleeping, wait- 
ing that day when the trumpet shall sound and at His 
appearing the dead shall awake to join the spirit now with 
Him. "So shall we ever be with the Lord." Two stones 
tell the story: 

Margaret E., daughter of 
A. H. and D. L. Stetson. 
Oct. 16, 1899— March 18, 1908. 
"At home with the Lord."— II Cor. 5:8. R. V. 

Paul L., son of 

A. H. and D. L. Stetson. 

March 8, 1902— March 5, 1908. 

"With Christ which is far better."— Phil. 1:23. 

We have hoped that these inscriptions might be used of 
God to speak to sad hearts who may read them of the 
"Glorious Hope" for the future. 

I love to steal away to that spot on a quiet Sabbath 
afternoon and carry flowers. I know they are not there, 



60 AFTERWARD 

but perhaps they know and it almost seems like doing 
something for them again. Anyway, it is all that is left 
on earth of them, the sacred dust of that which I cared 
for and tended so tenderly. 

"My Children/' 

"I loved them so, 
That when the Elder Shepherd of the fold 
Came, covered with the storm, and pale and cold, 
And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold, 

I bade him go. 

He claimed the pet — 
A little foundling thing that to my breast 
Clung always, either in quiet or unrest — 
I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, 

And yet, and yet — 

I laid him down 
In those white, shrouded arms with bitter tears; 
For some voice told me that, in after years, 
He should know naught of passion, grief or fears, 

As I had known. 

And yet again 
That Elder Shepherd came. My heart grew faint, 
He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint, 
Another! She who, gentle as a saint, 

Ne'er gave me pain. 

Aghast I turned away. 
There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, 



AFTERWARD 61 

Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam, 
Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam, 
I knelt to pray. 

'Is it Thy Will? 
My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given? 
Oh, Thou hast many such in Heaven/ 
And a soft voice said: 'Nobly has thou striven 

But — Peace, be still/ 

Oh, how I wept, 
And clasped her to my bosom with a wild 
And yearning love — my lamb, my pleasant child — 
Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled, 

And sweetly slept. 

Ay! it is well — 
Well with my lambs, and with their earthly guide; 
There pleasant rivers wander they beside, 
Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide — 

Ay! it is well." 

— Author Unknown. 



Little Boy Blue. 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and staunch he stands; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket moulds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new 

And the soldier was passing fair, 
And that was the time when Little Boy Blue 

Kissed them and put them there. 

"Now don't you go till I come," he said; 

"And don't you make any noise !" 
So toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamed of the pretty toys. 
And as he was dreaming, an angel-song 

Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
Oh, the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true. 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place; 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face. 
And they wonder in waiting these long years through, 

In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 

Since he kissed them and put them there? 

— Eugene Field. 



62 




PAUL, AGED TWO. 



CHAPTER IV. 



CONFLICT AND VICTORY. 



"Fight the good fight of faith."— 1 Tim. 6:12. 

"He hath sent me to bind up the broken hearted * * 
* To comfort all that mourn." — Isa. 61:1, 2. 

"He maketh sore and bindeth up. He woundeth and 
His hands make whole." — Job 5:18. 

Shall He Take Away Pain? 

The cry of man's anguish went up unto God: 

"Lord, take away pain — 
The shadow that darkens the world Thou hast made, 

The close-coiling chain 
That strangles the heart, the burden that weighs 

On the wings that would soar — 
Lord, take away pain from the world Thou hast made, 

That it love Thee the more!" 

Then answered the Lord to the cry of His world: 

"Shall I take away pain, 
And with it the power of the soul to endure, 

Made strong by the strain? 
Shall I take away pity, that knits heart to heart, 

And sacrifice high? 
Will ye lose all your heroes that lift from the fire 

White brows to the sky? 

63 



64 AFTERWARD 

Shall I take away love, that redeems with a price 

And smiles at its loss? 
Can ye spare from your lives, that would climb unto mine, 

The Christ on His cross ?" 

— Author Unknown. 

And now I would fain stay my pen and keep locked in 
my own breast the experiences of the next few months. 
But the hope that I may magnify the forbearance and 
love and all-sufficient grace of Him who "knoweth our 
frame and remembereth that we are dust" impels me to 
tell it. Also the recounting of the terrible darkness and 
struggle through which I passed and my own weakness 
and failure, but final victory, may help some other broken- 
hearted one who is passing through the dark waters. 

We came back after laying both our children in the 
ground to the silent home. Oh, that awful stillness ! I 
shudder now, as I recall the silence of those rooms those 
first days. Where two merry voices had made music all 
day long, now no sound broke the stillness. Where two 
little figures were ever dancing to and fro, only a void. 

A sense of awful desolation overwhelmed me, and for 
the first time a faint conception of what it was going to 
mean to me to go on living without them, came over me. 
This was the beginning of a fight which for six months 
was fiercely waged — a fight with loneliness and pain and 
doubt; a fight in which victory and defeat alternated. I 
now know that physical weakness entered largely into 
the failure, for the ordeal through which I had passed had 
left the poor body and nerves in a sad condition. 

There had been no time between Paul's going and Mar- 
garet's illness to put away Paul's things, and everything 
was just as the two had left them. At every turn was a 



AFTERWARD 65 

fresh reminder of our double loss — the little knives and 
forks and empty chairs in the dining-room; the number 
at our family board reduced just half; the school books, 
the little overcoat and cap, hanging in the hall; the muddy 
little rubbers. And the cribs — those empty little cribs — 
must be taken down and put away. But the playroom 
was most heart-rending of all. How could I touch it? 
The multitude of little things, all left as the little hands 
had arranged them in the last play: The Teddy bear, in 
his suit; the favorite dolly dressed for an outing; the 
dolly's bed neatly made up; the dolly's playhouse with its 
innumerable details; the tool chest — everything indicating 
that they had but left their play for a few minutes to re- 
turn and take it up again; their clothes-press, full, too, of 
little garments freshly ironed and mended, ready for the 
little forms now so quiet. 

Oh, it was hard, hard to realize that all of these things 
would never be needed by them again, but harder to try 
to realize that they did not need me any more. 

Mother, can you realize what it meant to readjust my- 
self to life without them? All motherhood gone in three 
short weeks. The suffering and loneliness of those days 
no one can understand who has not passed along the same 
rough path. 

Spring soon began sending forth heralds of her ap- 
proach, but the tender, springing grass, the soft balmy air, 
only intensified the loss and added to the gloom. It 
seemed as if Nature had no right to be glad, they were 
not here to enjoy these things so dear to childish hearts. 
A little bird, which chirped in the early morn outside my 
window, seemed to be singing a dirge, and to this day that 
peculiar melody brings back a picture of those dark days. 

First there came a desperate attempt to run away from 



66 AFTERWARD 

the pain. I insisted upon renting our home and taking a 
flat, thinking that it would be easier away from the deso- 
late home, where everything reminded me of them so 
vividly. But I afterward bitterly regretted the step, for 
I only found it harder to be away from the sad but dear 
associations. I went here and there for a time, in this 
attempt to run away from my grief, but found that it had 
come to live with me wherever I was, and finally I learned 
to accept it as from my Father's hand. Its companionship 
I needed, and now the guest which I finally so unwillingly 
welcomed to my bosom, has become a heavenly messenger 
to open up the unseen realms of sacred, chastened joy. 

Reading, in those days, was welcomed as a refuge. 
Absorption in the lives of others who had lived and suf- 
fered for the cause of Christ, and yet who were called 
upon to pass through deep bereavements, taught me that 
none were exempt, and that He had not singled me out 
to afflict. The lives of Payton, Judson, H. Taylor, Mof- 
fett, Madam Guyon and others were of great help. Also 
living lives afforded a relief, and I sought out the afflicted 
and tried to comfort, and, strange to say, He enabled me 
to do so, dark and inconsistent as some hours in my own 
life were. 

But the darkest hours of all were when the enemy came 
with his doubts and I partially admitted him, for I do 
not believe that for even a moment I ever threw wide the 
door to him. Mainly they were questionings concerning 
the justice of God's present dealings with me, and ques- 
tionings about the hereafter. Why should He come to our 
modest, happy little home, and take both my little lambs, 
whom I was endeavoring in every possible way to train 
for Him, when there were so many neglected, unloved 
little ones who were destined to grow up unblessed and a 



AFTERWARD 67 

blessing to none, possibly a curse to humanity? Was God 
over all? Did He care? Many questions and hot rebel- 
lion at times, I fear, filled my heart. All of this shows 
one need I had of this stroke. 

"Nay, all by Thee is ordered, chosen, planned — - 
Each drop that fills my daily cup; Thy hand 
Prescribes for ills, none else can understand. ,, 

— A. L. Newton. 

All unconsciously, I had drifted farther away from God 
than I knew, and my children and my home were first. 

Then the questionings about the hereafter. That Un- 
seen upon which they enter when they so silently, mys- 
teriously slip out of this. That land that my children 
who, a few days before, played about my feet, now knew 
all about and keep silent about. Was there a real identity 
and existence there? Eagerly for a time I read the investi- 
gations which were going on in the field of psychical re- 
search^ Hyslop and Savage, Prof. James and others. I 
don't think that this reading hurt me any. As a branch of 
science, it interested me deeply, almost absorbed me for a 
time, but as a means of consolation or hope for the future, 
it afforded me none, absolutely. 

Apart from faith and His Holy Spirit, I believe that 
God will never reveal these things in any comforting 
assurance to His children. So meager are any scraps of 
revelation claimed to have been received from the other 
world, so unsatisfactory in their nature, and so trivial in 
their character, that one turns back with a sigh of relief 
to the higher revelations of Scripture, for we cannot im- 
agine our loved ones as less noble and high minded, since 
they have gone into the presence of Jesus than while here. 



68 AFTERWARD 

And if mine came back to me at all, they would bring me 
messages from Him whom they and I so love, and not 
trivialities or uncanny manifestations in darkened rooms. 
I also recognized the danger of getting into communica- 
tion with evil, wandering spirits, which, I am inclined to 
think, are the only ones who condescend to manifest them- 
selves in these undignified ways. 

We as Christians will owe science a debt of gratitude if 
she ever does succeed in throwing any light on that Un- 
seen Land, as she has upon so many of the mysteries of 
nature, but methinks that the realities of these things are 
only seen by the eye of faith, as the deepest things per- 
taining to the Christian life are only grasped by faith. 
The effect of this reading upon me taught me that after 
all my house was "built upon a rock," and the storm which 
was so fiercely beating upon it "shook it not." 

Prayer gave consolation only at times. At others, I 
could not pray. I had prayed so much during Margaret's 
illness that it now seemed a mockerv, and there was such 
an uncertainty about everything around me that I could 
not trust my utterances. 

I could not trust the sweet, helpful, comforting books 
which were brought to me, and so far as they seemed to 
be the fancy of people, they afforded little comfort. 

I could not rely upon the consolation of friends; they, 
like all else, might be unreal. I must have sure comfort. 
A grain of uncertainty, and all comfort fled. And so it 
came to be that the "Eternal Word" was my only real 
comfort. That in all those weary, tempest-tossed months 
never failed me. I then thanked God that, not only for 
my own spiritual growth, but for the instruction of others, 
I had made it a life-long study and knew where to find 
its teachings about Heaven and the sure hope of the 



AFTERWARD 69 

Christian. It was as bread stored up for a time of famine, 
and I could now turn to it. I had not a vague idea that 
certain things were said somewhere in God's Word about 
Heaven and God's love. I could unlock the door to this 
storehouse and feed. These were not man's sayings, but 
God's. If it could not be relied upon, nothing could; all 
of our dearest hopes were gone, and it didn't much matter 
what happened. "If in this life only we have hope in 
Christ, we are of all men most miserable." a 

I had gone to the highest source I knew of, and I could 
and would rely upon this or nothing until I knew of some- 
thing better. And certainly science, or man's specula- 
tions or criticisms, offered nothing better, and so upon the 
solid foundation of God's Own Word, I finally took my 
stand, and there I remain until the Hereafter unfolds its 
mysteries before my waking eyes and faith gives way to 
perfect sight. 'Tor now we see in a mirror, darkly; but 
then face to face; now I know in part; but then shall I 
know fully even as also I was fully known." b I sought 
out all of the passages I could find about Heaven and the 
future life, and was amazed to find how many they were 
and how comforting. 

After little Paul went, these passages kept coming to 
me: "He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with 
grief." c "He spared not His only Son." d And I realized 
that I could the better enter into the mystery of Calvary 
because He had asked my son of me. "I was dumb, I 
opened not my mouth; because Thou didst it." e "What 
I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt understand 

a I. Cor. 15:19. 
b I. Cor. 18:1*. R.Y. 
clsa. 53:3. 
dRom. 8:3S. 
ePs. 39:9. 



70 AFTERWARD 

hereafter." f "For it became Him, for whom are all things, 
and by whom are all things, in bringing many sons unto 
glory, to make the captain of their salvation perfect 
through sufferings/ ' s 

The morning after Margaret had left us we read at 
family prayers 1 Corinthians 15. Wonderfully God spoke 
to us through this chapter of the glorious hope of the 
Resurrection, especially these verses: "Christ, the first 
fruits, then they that are Christ's, at His coming." (Verse 
23). "The sting of death is sin" (Verse 56). Surely in 
this case there was no sting. "Death is swallowed up in 
victory" (Verse 54). That morning I sang and played 
softly 

"Peace, Perfect Peace." 

"Peace! perfect peace in this dark world of sin 
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within. 

Peace ! perfect peace with sorrows surging round, 
On Jesus' bosom naught but calm is found. 

Peace! perfect peace with loved ones far away 
In Jesus' keeping we are safe and they. 

Peace! perfect peace our future all unknown, 
Jesus we know and He is on the throne. 

Peace ! perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours, 
Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers. 

It is enough, earth's struggles soon will cease 
And Jesus call to Heaven's perfect peace." 

— Edward H. BicJcersteth. 

f Jno. 13:7. 
gHeb. 2:10. 



AFTERWARD 71 

I think I have not sung since, however, about the house. 
Perhaps it is one of the victories yet for me. I used to 
do it so much in those happy days, about my work, but 
the song was hushed on my lips. The house is so quiet 
now, I cannot yet bring myself to do it. They say that 
when the nestlings have flown the parent birds cease their 
song. 

But finally I grew to ask not "why but how' 9 With my 
whole being, I sought to find out His purpose in it, and 
how I might bring the most glory to His dear name 
through it. It must ever remain so in my life, and I had 
accepted it, and now I was anxious not to miss one lesson, 
not to leave unfulfilled one detail of His blessed plan. 

It was in October of that same year, six months after 
my children had gone, that I felt that the victory was 
complete, and I found it in the joy of service. I received 
an invitation through a friend to come to a neglected, 
needy little place and conduct some meetings. It was a 
place that I think He would seek out were He here, and 
there I found that the joy of seeing souls born into the 
Kingdom could fill my desolate heart, and that the Spir- 
itual children which He should graciously give me could 
in a sense compensate for the absence of my children after 
the flesh. I shall always think of this little church hid- 
den in the beautiful mountains of the Adirondacks as the 
child of my grief, and especially dear to me are these chil- 
dren of mine. 

Here I began again to live my life for others and to be 
willing to live if I could serve, for there had been at 
times such a longing to join them. These lines were 
penned that summer before I took up that work: 



n 



AFTERWARD 



Kept. 

I am longing for the summons 

Which some glad sweet day will come, 
Bidding me lay down my weapons 

And hie me to my Heavenly Home. 

Oft I'm homesick as I tarry 
In the noontide's steady glow 

Or when shadows darken round me, 
To my Home I fain would go. 

Do they know, my precious loved ones, 
How their mother longs to swell 

That vast throng now passing over 
Where her treasures safely dwell? 

He will keep my darlings safely 
While I struggle in the night, 

Of this dark world's sin and error 
Holding forth the "Word of Light." 

He will keep them safe from danger, 
Safe! where Satan never harms. 

Safely sheltered on His bosom, 
Cradled in His gentle arms. 



He will keep them till the morning 
Breaks on that Eternal Shore, 

And again I clasp my darlings, 
Mine and His forevermore. 



AFTERWARD 73 

This work led to engagements in surrounding towns, 
and thus the winter passed, and the vision of Service which 
had been vouchsafed me was intensified and became a 
fixed life purpose. Never do I feel my loved ones so near 
as when I am giving His message of salvation and lost 
ones are coming Home. I believe they know. The angels 
in Heaven know and rejoice — why should not they, who 
are more interested in me than the angels? 

Often they come to me in my dreams at night, and I 
fondly clasp the little hands — the tender eyes look into 
mine, and again we wander over the sun-lit fields and 
pluck the daisies and buttercups, or softly commune to- 
gether, as of yore. And then I awaken— alone — to face 
life's realities — and yet, not alone, for tender and pitiful 
and strong is the Presence, unseen save by the eyes of 
faith upon whose bosom I lean. 

Or the scene changes, and only one of them comes. 
Last night in my dreams we wandered together — my little 
maid and I— over a trackless desert plain. My own feet 
grew weary, and I was grieved for hers- — but she was 
lirave and sweet as of old, and when a wagon came by and 
took her in, I said: "She must be weary. The way was 
too rough for the tender little feet." She smiled so bright- 
ly, and quickly said: "Oh, it was such a little way. It 
wasn't hard at all for me. Mother is the one it is hard 
for." Then I said, "Good-night, Sweetheart," and she 
went on. 

"And so beside the silent sea, 
I wait the muffled oar; 
No harm from Him can come to me 
On ocean or on shore. 



74 AFTERWARD 

1 know not where His islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air; 
I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond His love and care." 

— Whittier. 



AFTERWARD 75 



"On the Death of a Child." 

"My heart goes out to you — twice over — for the sor- 
row that has come to you, and for the thought that I 
could perhaps be a help to you. That shows that you see 
already one reason why sorrow comes — you turn to me, 
because I have tasted the same cup. Some day some one 
will come to you, and you will 'comfort with the comfort 
wherewith you yourself have been comforted.' Perfect 
sympathy cannot spring from the imagination. Only 
they who have suffered can really sympathize. I am sure 
you are saying, like the little child in the dark, 
'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.' The worst of 
all losses is a lost sorrow, for then all is lost. Your little 
child is safe, and I believe your sorrow is safe, too, for 
you are your Father's child, and you want to please Him. 
I would not ask 'why,' if I were you. 'How' is a better 
word — how can I glorify Thee, how well can I show those 
who know me how the Father can help His child. God's 
will is not to be borne, but ever to be done. Now you are 
to do His will, under new, hard, distressing and depress- 
ing circumstances. If we were pagans, we might hide 
ourselves and our despair, but we are Christians who say 
'Our Father' and hear our Saviour's words, 'Because I live 
ye shall live also.' Heirs then of eternal life and love — 
our own, ours forever, sleeping or waking — here or there 
— with uplifted faces, brave hearts and faithful hands, we 
must do our work, help lift others' burdens, scatter kind- 
nesses, following Him who said, knowing it would lead to 



76 AFTERWARD 

the Cross, 'Follow me.' I did not mean to write all this. 
I only meant to tell you how sorry I am for you. Enter 
the door of a brave and patient trust. 'Blessed are they 
who have not seen, and yet have believed/ This is the 
only world in which you can suffer, so do it perfectly, 
trustingly, unselfishly, seeking through your grief to be 
better fitted to serve in Christ's name and way those who 
need. Always think of me as your friend, and take any 
advantage of my friendship. What are we for, but to 
love and help one another?" 

— By Maltbie Babcock, 



CHAPTER V. 



god's eternal purpose. 



"For they indeed for a few days chastened us, as 
seemed good to them; but He for our pron% that we may 
be partakers of His holiness. ,, — Heb. 12:10. 

"I shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy likeness. " 
— Ps. 17:15. 

"All chastening seemeth for the present to be not joy- 
ous but grievous , yet aftertvard it yieldeth peaceable fruit 
unto them that have been exercised thereby, even the fruit 
of righteousness/ ' — Heb. 12:11. 



Pain's furnace heat within me quivers; 

God's breath upon the flame doth blow; 
And all my heart in anguish shivers 

And trembles at the fiery glow. 
And yet I whisper, "As God will," 
* And in His hottest fire hold still, 

He comes and lays my heart all heated 
On the hard anvil, minded so 

Into His own fair shape to beat it 

With His great hammer, blow on blow. 

And yet I whisper, "As God will," 
And at His heaviest blows hold still. 

77 



78 AFTERWARD 

Why should I murmur? For the sorrow 

Thus only longer lived would be. 
Its end may come and will to-morrow, 

When God has done His work in me. 
So I say trusting, "As God will/' 

And trusting to the end hold still. 

— Mrs. Hamilton. 

Walking out one day, a few weeks after my children 
had gone, I saw across the street a friend, a dear Chris- 
tian man, whom it was always a joy to meet and greet, 
because of his unfailing cheerfulness, but who at that 
time was tottering along, suffering from the effect of a 
stroke he had sustained, and which later resulted in his 
death. "God's eternal purpose, Mrs. Stetson," he called 
to me, "God's eternal purpose." That was all he said, 
his only message of sympathy, and passed on, but I knew 
what he meant and the words clung to me. 

And now, after the lapse of three and one-half years, 
as that purpose has developed, what do I note as the 
"peaceable fruit" of the "Afterward?" Not all of His 
purposes, oh, no. I shall not know that till I reach the 
Other Shore, nor do I seek to fathom all the mysteries 
of that blessed will; enough for me that He deemed this 
double stroke best and necessary, and "Shall He not do 
what He will with His own," but such "fruits of right- 
eousness" as He has vouchsafed to show me. 

A changed vision regarding many things would seem 
to me almost a necessary result of such an experience. A 
conviction that the things seen are only temporal, while 
the Unseen things are the real and eternal. Many things 
are now regarded with what Maltbie Babcock terms "The 
Downward Look." How will the lives we are living, the 



AFTERWARD 79 

service we are rendering, the petty annoyances, small 
ambitions, little grievances look when viewed from 
Heaven ? 

"If ye were raised together with Christ, seek the things 
that are above where Christ is, seated on the right hand 
of God. Set your mind on the things that are above, not 
on the things that are upon the earth/ ' a 

'Tor where thy treasure is, there will thy heart be 
also. ,, b But that the vision might be shifted, the heart- 
strings had to be torn asunder from the earth and fas- 
tened There. 

Life has grown sweet again, with a quiet joy, and a 
steady peace, but it is now only an opportunity, this little 
sojourn in the flesh, so very soon ended. Its precious, 
golden moments are fleeting, and the enemy is ever per- 
suading men to close their eyes to the future and live only 
for the present. The little service we may render now, 
whether in the quiet of the home or the glare of publicity; 
whether a failure or a success in the sight of man, if done 
for Him alone, "Not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but 
as servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the 
heart," c is but a preparation, the beginning of Eternal 
Service, for "His servants shall serve Him. ,, d And to 
His own, not one needed lesson is withheld, not one need- 
less one given to fit for that glorious future service. 

And as for now, the One who said to His children of 
old: "As thy days, so shall thy strength be," always 
gives "Grace sufficient," and has not meant us to be 
overwhelmed with sorrow, but as a missionary friend, 

whose loved companion was taken from his side, wrote 

a Col. 3:2. 
bMatt. 6:21. 

cCol. 3:22. 
dRev. 22:3. 



SO AFTERWARD 






out of the deep anguish of his heart: "The soldiers of 
the Lord must not expect an easier time than the soldiers 
of the world. Indeed, we are told that it is our part to 
make up the lacking portion of the suffering necessary to 
redeem the world. Soldiers in active service must expect 
that some will fall, and when they fall, there is nothing 
to do but close up the ranks and move on." 

The world is watching us; let us not lose this oppor- 
tunity to show to the world the sufficiency of our Christ, 
and our perfect confidence in the One who makes no mis- 
takes. "The cup which my Father giveth me, shall I not 
drink it?" 

"I cannot say, 
Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day, 

I joy in these; 

But I can say 
That I had rather walk this rugged way 

If Him it please. 

I cannot feel 
That all is well when darkening clouds conceal 

The shining sun; 

But then, I know 
God lives and loves; and say, since it is so, 

Thy will be done/ 

I cannot speak 
In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek 

Show I am sad; 

But I can speak 
Of grace to suffer with submission meek, 

Until made glad. 



AFTERWARD 81 

I may not try 
To keep the hot tears back; but hush that sigh, 

It might have been; 

And try to still 

Each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will 

Respond — 'Amen.' 3 _ „ _ 

— k. tr. Brownuu/. 

But it takes the softening finger of time to bring us So 
that place where we can calmly face our sorrow and loss, 
reflect upon His love and tenderness, accept though with 
a quivering heart His will as best and sweetest of all and 
face life again with a brave front. The length of time de- 
pends upon the depth of the wound and the development 
which spiritual things have had in our lives. If eternal 
things have had a large share, the more quickly can we 
readjust ourselves when our earthly hopes are shattered 
and the very foundations of our being shaken with the 
passing tempest. Be patient with yourself, dear heart. 
He is patient with you. Never once did I feel His con- 
demnation — although at times rebellion and doubt knocked 
loud for admittance. Only His tender, pitying love 
seemed to say: "Can you not trust Me?" "Can you not 
watch with Me in the gathering gloom?" 

"But life can never be the same again," some one says. 
That is true. It never can be the same, although to those 
around us it may seem to run in the same channels. Malt- 
bie Babcock says: "Perhaps God did not mean it to be 
the same." Deep down in the heart things are different. 
Ever after there slumbers something unsuspected often by 
those with whom we mingle. Awakened by a casual word 
or look, perhaps a song, it rises up with a pang in our 
most absorbing work and seemingly happiest hours. But 
One knows and it is a precious secret which He shares. 



82 AFTERWARD 

We must, if we are His soldiers, press on, without the 
dear feet at our side. We shall miss the companionship 
of the dear ones. Sometimes we mothers shall catch our- 
selves glancing around for the dancing little feet, which 
were never absent before, and the heart will ofttimes be 
sore and heavy, but it is only a "little while," and there 
is much to be done before we reach "Home," and the rest 
and rewards will be the sweeter for the thorny way. 

So let us still the hunger in our hearts, as we see other 
happy mothers, and seek to find His Eternal Purpose — 
for there is one — and not miss one sweet lesson He has 
for us. 

"Not now, my child! — a little more rough tossing, 

A little longer on the billow's foam, 
A few more journeyings in the desert darkness — 

And then the sunshine of thy Father's home; 

Not now! — for I have wanderers in the distance, 
And thou must call them in with patient love; 

Not now! — for I have sheep upon the mountains, 
And thou must follow them where'er they rove; 

Not now! — for I have loved ones sad and weary, 
Wilt thou not cheer them with a kindly smile? 

Sick ones who need thee in their lonely sorrow, 
Wilt thou not tend them yet a little while?" 

— Author Unknown. 

And what if a pain does pierce our hearts as we work? 
It pierced another mother's heart long ago, and ever since 
the Story of Calvary has comforted a lost world. His 
pain and loneliness and suffering brought joy to others — 
cannot ours to a small degree? Let us follow on in the 



AFTERWARD 83 

pathway He trod, and leave not one heart uncomforted 
that we can comfort, one burden resting upon a weak one 
that we can lift, one faithless, one unstrengthened that we 
can strengthen, and — 

"Well if the lips do quiver, 
God will love us better so." 

"Memory," did I hear some one say — "only a memory 
now"? No, not only a memory, for I am a mother still, a 
mother of two in Heaven, and many a mother whose chil- 
dren are here would gladly exchange places with me, for 
they mourn the lost who are not dead, and women who 
will never know the clasp of warm little arms will never 
know the joy throbbing in my heart at the thought of 
the welcome awaiting me over There. 

A memory, too. Yes, and a sweet one, all beautiful and 
sweet. Unclouded by any darkness of shame and dis- 
grace; untainted by any sin. A sorrow, but mixed with 
sweet and no bitter. A sorrow that needs not to be hid- 
den, but about which I can speak gently, soothingly to 
broken hearts. It was my unspeakable privilege for these 
few beautiful years to train two little immortal souls for 
Heaven. The work finished Here was taken up There. 
A part of me has gone There, and I still tarry to finish 
the work He has put in my hands. My life beautified 
and fitted for Service as it never would have been with- 
out the skillful touch of the little hands upon it; and 
purified as it never would have been without the washing 
of tears; and able to light others as it never would have 
been able had it not passed through the midnight darkness. 

The joy of a great sorrow is mine. Strange paradox, 
some one will say. A hushed quiet rests in my soul, the 
quiet of a will that no longer strives. A radiance from 



84 AFTERWARD 

the Other World has thrown light on Eternal Things, and 
I believe that they have their rightful place. 

Security in them is mine, and when I put my hand in 
the nail-piereed one, and step out into the Unknown, will 
He disappoint His trusting child, who has dared to stay 
in the hour of darkness, when everything around seemed 
to be toppling upon those Eternal Truths of His Word? 
Never, If it were not so, He would have told us. I do 
not speculate upon what He has not told us, for it is 
enough that "I shall be satisfied.' ' 

Heaven has seemed so near and real since they went 
there. 

"It seemed such a little way to me, 

Across to that strange country — the Beyond. 
And yet not strange, for it has grown to be 

The Home of those I am so fond. 
They made it seem familiar and most dear 
As journeying friends bring distant countries near." 

— Phoebe Cary. 

Their going has proved a stepping stone to higher 
ground, from whence I get clearer visions of the Eternal 
City, and from whence I strain my eyes and seem to catch 
glimpses of its glories, and at times it almost seems as if 
sweet strains must reach me, for they are There, playing 
with the other children. 

"Playing in the Streets Thereof." 

"I wonder, oh, I wonder, what the little children play — 
The little children who have gone unto the Land of Day; 
I wonder if they fill the air with shouts of childish glee — 
The mirthful shouts that used to make such melody for me. 



AFTERWARD 85 

I wonder, oh, I wonder, if, when weary of their play, 
They nestle down together in the old familiar way; 
I wonder if they gather close about the Master's knee, 
And lean upon His bosom as they used to lean on me. 

Sometimes, dear Lord, I cannot help the ready tears that 

flow, 
And yet why should I wonder? 'Tis enough for me to 

know 
That they are in Thy keeping — the little ones who play 
About the wondrous golden streets of that fair Land of 

Day. 

Xot with this mortal vision their bright faces I behold, 
And yet I almost see them — almost hear them as of old. 
My heart is strangely comforted, as to me o'er and o'er 
There comes the thought that Heaven never seemed so 
near before/' 

Perhaps only a few more marches and the lights from 
that city shall illumine the path, and at its Gates two 
shall be watching with radiant faces to welcome me to its 
Glories. What a home-coming that will be! Gone on be- 
fore safe — not left behind to sorrow over my going — 
ready to show me to the place which He said He would 
prepare and which they have gone to occupy. 

Oh, mother heart, you whose children have gone pure 
from your arms — oh, aching mother heart, your pain will 
all be forgotten then and will be turned into deepest joy 
when He gives them back again, to be yours forever and 
forever. 



86 AFTERWARD 

"Recompense." 

"We are quite sure 

That He will give them back — bright, pure and beautiful, 

We know He will but keep 

Our own and His until we fall asleep. 

We know He does not mean 

To break the strands reaching between 

The Here and There. 

He does not mean — though Heaven be fair — 

To change the spirits entering there, that they forget 

The eyes upraised and wet, 

The lips too still for prayer, 

The mute despair. 

He will not take 

The spirits which He gave, and make 

The glorified so new 

That they are lost to me and you. 

I do believe 

They will receive 

Us — you and me — and be so glad 

To meet us, that when most I would grow sad 

I just begin to think about that gladness, 

And the day 

When they shall tell us all about the way 

That they have learned to go — 

Heaven's pathways show. 

My lost, my own and I 

Shall have so much to see together by and by, 

I do believe that just the same sweet face, 



AFTERWARD 87 

But glorified, is waiting in the place 

Where we shall meet, if only I 

Am counted worthy in that by and by. 

I do believe that God will give a sweet surprise 

To tear-stained, saddened eyes, 

And that His heaven will be 

Most glad, most tided through with joy for you and me, 

As we have suffered most. God never made 

Spirit for spirit, answering shade for shade, 

And placed them side by side — 

So wrought in one, though separate, mystified — 

And meant to break 

The quivering threads between. When we shall wake, 

I am quite sure, we will be very glad 

That for a little while we were so sad." 

— George Klingle, 

My heart aches for those who possess but a dead sor- 
row. Those to whom the messenger of pain has come, 
and he comes alike to all, and the messages he bore have 
been rejected. Those to whom life is the same, whose 
hearts are still unw r eaned from the world and who vainly 
seek to drown the anguish of loss in absorption in busi- 
ness or pleasure, missing the fellowship with Him in suf- 
fering, the deepened faith and trust. Or worse still, per- 
haps, those who allow themselves to be overwhelmed by 
the tempest, failing to see the glimmer of Eternal Hope 
which portends the "clear shining after rain — the morning 
without clouds." For while we joyfully serve as long as 
He gives strength and opportunity, our face is ever 
toward the Home Land, where dwells so much that is 
dear, and when finally we awake and gaze upon Him 
whom our soul loveth, we shall reckon "that the suffer- 



88 AFTERWARD 

ings of this present time are not worthy to be compared 
with the glory which shall be revealed. ,, 

I append these few letters as illustrations of the many 
which reached us. 

From a friend in the West: 

"The paper just came to-day with the sad, sad news 
in it. Both precious babies gone home, and almost to- 
gether! You have been in my thoughts and prayers to- 
day very much. I cannot help but wonder what God has 
for you. Has He called these dear little ones away that 
you might be the spiritual mother to more of us? Surely 
His ways are deep and wonderful. 

Dear, dear Mrs. Stetson, how we do feel for you and 
Mr. Stetson, and in these lonely days wish that our love 
for you might some way help you more. 

I look at my little girl, so robust and full of life, and 
feel awed at what capacities for joy or sorrow are open. 
I wish I lived near where I could visit you. But am I 
wrong — I still think of you, even in this double sorrow, 
as brave and cheerful and strong, comforting others. Any- 
way, since I, too, am privileged to be a mother, I wish I 
might see you and put my arms about you and let love 
speak in silence, dear, dear Mrs. Stetson. I hope I can 
see you again before very long. I know you have a mes- 
sage for me. 

With love overflowing, 



L o^ 



"Death cannot long divide, 
For is it not as though the rose, 
That climbed our garden-wall, 
Had blossomed on the other side? 
Death doth hide, but not divide; 



AFTERWARD 89 

Thou art on Christ's other side; 

Thou art with Christ and Christ with me ; 

In Christ united still are we." 

— Unknown. 

From a teacher in New York City, w T ho had lived in our 
family when Margaret was a baby: 

" Words cannot express my sorrow when I read J 's 

letter telling me that little Paul and Margaret had gone 
Home. Heaven has seemed very near ever since, but earth 
very, very lonely. My heart has sorrowed for you and 
Mr. Stetson. Of course God's own comfort will be very 
precious to you now, but the human sadness and heartache 
will still be there. It is sweet, indeed, to think that Mar- 
garet and Paul are together, side by side, seeing His face 
and learning the mysteries we cannot understand now. 
It seems as if God knew * Brother Paul' would be happier 
with his little sister Margaret beside to hold his hand, as 
she had always done. God knows, too, the lonely hearts 
left behind and His grace is sufficient. 

Words of human comfort are so useless, but when I 
think of your home, as I saw it last summer, and "the 
children, and your love and care for them, and the Chris- 
tian atmosphere and training which to me, ever since I 
have known you, has seemed like Heaven on earth, the 
whole thing just breaks my heart as I realize just a little 
of how you and Mr. Stetson must feel. For myself, I 
never had anything touch me as deeply. Dear little Mar- 
garet, how I loved her! Often when I am tempted to be 
harsh and quick with my poor, dirty, restless little chil- 
dren, I think of Margaret and my love for her, and the 
thought of her sweetness restrain me. As long as I live, 
I shall love to remember her dear little doings and say- 



90 AFTERWARD 

ings. It will make Heaven seem very near, through the 
years to come, to think of my dear little friend there who 

will, I hope, some day once more greet 'Aunt N / 

My deepest love and sympathy go out to you, and my 
sincerest prayers that you may be strengthened and com- 
forted now. God has taken 'your best' and will give no 
less than His best, even Himself, as Comforter. 

Lovingly yours, " 

From a missionary recently returned from Syria: 

"Through C M , I have just learned of your 

baptism of sorrow! No particulars, simply the fact; and 
I cannot refrain from sending you a word of deepest 
heartfelt sympathy. Words seem so poor a vehicle with 
which to meet such sorrow, but as the old Indian said, 
'I lay my heart against your heart,' and sorrow with you. 

What must our loving Father have in store for you to 
so try your spirit of faith and love! Some great ministry, 
it must be, in some form. How blessed that we know God 
is Love, and that when He calls us to walk through the 
deep darkness, He is just beside us, holding our faltering 
footsteps, and whispering so gently: 'Fear not, it is 1/ 

'His left hand is under my head, and His right hand 
doth embrace me.' He comforts as no one else can, 
and I am so thankful that you know His love, and will 
now know it better than ever. 'Be strong and of good 
courage/ for He will hold you up and you shall be com- 
forted. 

With deepest sympathy for you and your husband, 



From the wife of a former pastor: 

"I lay awake last night hour after hour thinking of you 
and your husband, and of how suddenly your family circle 



AFTERWARD 91 

has been broken and the birdling of the flock taken. How 
I would love to say some word of comfort, but you know 
it all better than I, and I can only add my sympathy to 
that of your many, many friends. 

I always had a special feeling for your little Paul. I 
think you knew it. He seemed to me an almost perfect 
specimen of a boy, healthy, sturdy, handsome, with a will 
and mind of his own; a boy any parents would have been 
proud to own. A beautiful gift to send to the Master! 
He has taken him in His arms and comforted him and 
blest him, and he will grow up under the loving Master's 
care and will know no struggle with temptation, no sin, 
no sorrow, no suffering, 'Of such is the Kingdom of 
Heaven/ 

You do not mourn for him, I know, but for yourselves. 
It is very hard. 'As one whom his mother comforteth/ 
so may you be comforted, dear Mrs. Stetson. 



From the same later: 

"My heart is too full for words. I have gone back to 
the parlor three times to look at the paper. I could not 
believe that I had read rightly the name in the paper. It 
could not be that your darling child had left you so sud- 
denly, so soon after her brother. It seems like a dream 
from which I shall awaken to find it not true. Did the 
dear child grieve herself ill for Paul? I fear so. They 
were so fond of each other. The only sweet thought is 
that they are now together in the dear Lord's care. Two 
precious lambs in the Shepherd's arms, safe enfolded. 
Such rare and lovely children are an exceptional gift. I 
have never seen a sweeter, more beautiful little girl than 
yours. She will need little change to mingle with the 
angels around the throne. You and Mr. Stetson have 



92 AFTERWARD 

sent sweet and beautiful messengers to Heaven, where 
they will always behold the faee of the Father. And He 
who pities our griefs and carries our sorrows will help 
you both. He must, for He knows it all and His heart is 
full of love; as you love your little ones, He loves you. 

But you know all this, dear Mrs. Stetson, you have 
taught me many a lesson in Christ's school, only I must 
tell you what comforts me for you. I know you are near 
the very heart of the Lord Jesus, I leave you with Him. 
knowing that He will not break one bruised reed, nor 
leave you comfortless. 

You know how fond Mr. P was of Margaret! I 

never knew him to speak so often of any child as he has 
of her. He is profoundly moved by this sad new T s. When 
I told him, he said: 'Anything that affected the Stetsons 
would affect me, but little Margaret! It can't be, it is 
not to be believed. Two such children within two weeks 
of each other. How can it be?' 

Most affectionately and sorrowfully yours, 



From a friend in a town where I had worked: 

"When I learned of your great bereavement I felt as if 
I must let you know that I have thought of you, as so 

many of us have here in M , and I want to extend to 

you my heartfelt sympathy. 

You have done so much for us here and we do wish we 
might do something for you in your great sorrow, and pray 
that the God of comfort may be with you and yours at this 
time. 

God alone knows why this is best, but I know you will 
believe that what God does is best though it will near 
break vour heart. I thought perhaps these little verses 



AFTERWARD 93 

might help in some way to comfort you. I will pray that 
they may. 

Best. 

Mother, I see you, with your nursery light, 
Leading your babies, all in white, 

To their sweet rest; 
Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night, 

And that is best. 

1 cannot help tears when I see them twine 

Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine 

On your warm breast, 
But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine, 

He can love best! 

You tremble each hour because your arms are weak, 
Your heart is wrung with alarms 

And sore oppressed; 
My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms, 

And that is best. 

You know over yours may hang even now 
Pain .and disease whose fulfilling slow 

Naught can arrest, 
Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 

And that is best. 

You know that of yours, your feeblest one 
And dearest, may live long years alone, 

Unloved, unblest, 
Mine are cherished of Saints around God's throne, 

And that is best. 



94 AFTERWARD 

You may dread for yours the crime that sears, 
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears, 

And unconfessed; 
Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 

Oh, how much the best! 

But grief is selfish; I cannot see 
Always why I should so stricken be, 

More than the rest; 
But I know that, as well for them, as for me, 

God did the best! 

— Helen Hunt Jackson. 

That God may bless and comfort you and yours in this 
two-fold affliction is the wish of 

One whom you have helped, ." 

"Say unto her: Is it well with thee? 
Is it well with thy husband? 
Is it well with the child? 
And she answered, It is well" 

II Kings 4:20. 



THE END. 



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